


At First Sight

by tastewithouttalent



Series: Immediate [1]
Category: Durarara!!
Genre: Alcohol, Alternate Universe - College/University, Blood, Drinking, Drunk Sex, Drunkenness, F/M, Hangover, Harima Mika/Yagiri Seiji - Freeform, Hate Sex, Heiwajima Kasuka/Hijiribe Ruri - Freeform, Insults, Jealousy, M/M, Male-Female Friendship, Mildly Dubious Consent, Muteness, Punching, Roommates, Rough Sex, Semi-Public Sex, Shower Sex, Sloppy Makeouts, Stalking, Stitches, Threats of Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-07-02
Updated: 2015-09-27
Packaged: 2018-04-04 22:03:11
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 30
Words: 47,314
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4154658
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tastewithouttalent/pseuds/tastewithouttalent
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"There’s a flash of teeth, too quick and too sharp to be quite called a smile, and then 'Can I help you?' in a voice so syrupy-smooth it grates on Shizuo’s ears." Shizuo gets along with almost everyone he meets until he meets his best friend's boyfriend's roommate.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Acid

_Sorry about dragging you along_ , Celty signs, barely turning around enough for Shizuo to see the flicker of pale fingers in the moonlit darkness.  _I know parties aren’t really your thing_.

“I don’t mind,” he says aloud, though she’s turning away already, running a hand through her hair  _again_  even though it’s fine, it looks just as good as it did when they left. She spent an hour in the bathroom, too, uncharacteristically fussy with her hair while Shizuo alternately held the curling iron or the hairspray for her. She does look nice, though Shizuo can’t completely point to what is different; he supposes that’s the point, though, to still be yourself just...more so, somehow.

“You don’t need to worry about it,” he says as Celty takes the stairs to the second-floor apartment one at a time, bracing herself with the handrail. She shows no sign of listening to him, but Shizuo’s pretty sure she’s in no state to pay attention to anything but her adrenaline anyway. “I’m pretty sure he’ll just be glad to see you.” 

Celty’s not paying him any attention. She’s made it to the top of the stairs, is reaching to knock as Shizuo joins her at the landing. There’s the faint sound of music from inside, a burst of laughter right as Celty lifts her hand, and Shizuo can see her flinch into stillness, nerves freezing her with her hand halfway to the door.

Shizuo sighs over her shoulder and leans in to knock himself, a loud clear sound to cut through the hum of noise inside. There’s a pause, enough time for Shizuo to straighten and Celty to offer a  _thank you_  as she flushes crimson, and then the door flies open and Shinra’s standing there, chirping “Celty!” very nearly before he’s had the chance to see them. He reaches out, fingers landing at the edge of Celty’s shoulder, and he’s leaning in for what looks like a kiss before Celty gets her hand up to shove him away. Shizuo glances sideways at her, but she’s smiling in spite of the force of her motion, and Shinra is still gesticulating welcome as Celty pushes him back inside the doorway.

“Come in, come in!” He gives up on the attempted affection, turning to wave them both inside instead, and Celty ducks her head and takes the offer, leaving Shizuo to trail in her wake. “I wasn’t sure you’d come, I’m so glad you made it!” It’s warmer inside, the air hot and heavy with more people and insufficient ventilation, and there’s a babble of sound, noise overwhelming enough to remind Shizuo of why, exactly, he tends to avoid parties when he’s not offering moral support to his best friend. Shinra’s maneuvering down the hall, waving his hand to a crowd of people while turning in to face Celty completely, and Shizuo is ready to step in if needed but Celty’s still smiling, lifting a hand in a careful wave when Shinra announces her name like she’s an expected guest of honor. He waves Shizuo forward, clearly ready to do the same for him, but Shizuo shakes his head and ducks sideways to hide himself in the relative safety of the kitchen. Better to do introductions later, when he can stick to his first name and avoid the assumptions that come with his last.

The kitchen is all but empty; there’s a couple sitting in the corner, a boy with his arm around a girl’s shoulders while she leans in against him. It would be sweet, if he weren’t staring blankly into space like he’s almost unaware of her existence; as it is it’s just a little unsettling, keeps Shizuo moving past them and into the array of half-empty bottles and forgotten plastic cups littering the counter.

There’s only one other person here, a dark head bowed over the splash of liquid into a pitcher of something nearly neon green, the drink alarming enough in color that Shizuo is frowning at it before the other even lifts his head. There’s a flash of teeth, too quick and too sharp to be quite called a smile, and then “Can I help you?” in a voice so syrupy-smooth it grates on Shizuo’s ears.

“What the fuck are you doing?” he asks, crossing his arms over his chest as his frown climbs into his eyes and turns his gaze into a glare.

“Making drinks,” the other says, holding up the pitcher like it’s an explanation and drawling condescension into his tone. “Want one?”

“Not of that,” Shizuo scoffs. “That looks like fucking battery acid.”

The other tips his head, considers the pitcher critically. “It doesn’t, actually.” He sets the weight down, leans back to rest his elbows on the counter and slouch down against the support. “Battery acid’s a lot darker than this.”

Shizuo can feel his eyes narrow. “You know what I fucking mean. What  _is_  that, you’re not going to give that to people to drink, are you?”

“Caffeine and tequila,” the other answers easily. “And yeah, I am. Do you not know how parties  _work_?”

“I prefer to make better use of my time,” Shizuo snaps.

“Setting a good example for your baby brother?”

It comes out slow, slippery like the words are coated in oil, but they hit like ice, lancing through Shizuo’s blood and dropping his stomach out from under him. He doesn’t think about moving; he just  _does_ , lunges across the width of the kitchen and is suddenly there, growling fury directly into the stranger’s face. His eyes are a weird color, dark and faintly red, like long-dried blood collected into his irises, and his smile isn’t slipping, even when Shizuo hisses and leans in close enough for his chest to bump the other’s skinny frame.

“Don’t talk about my  _brother_ ,” he snaps. “Don’t  _ever_.”

The white slash of that grin goes wider, there’s a catch of laugh so sharp it sounds like glass shattering. “You  _are_  his brother, then. I thought I recognized that jawline, even with the bleached hair. Are you trying to be incognito?” His eyes cut up to Shizuo’s pale hair, drag against the ends of it like a touch. “They do say you get tetchy on that subject.”

“A lot fucking more than  _tetchy_ ,” Shizuo spits. “Don’t--”

“Ah, Shizuo!”

The voice is from behind him, loud enough to startle Shizuo out of his half-formed sentence. He jerks back, stumbling back over the linoleum underfoot, and it’s only after he’s moved that he recognizes Shinra smiling at him, Celty standing just at his shoulder with her fingers careful hooked into his. She’s flushed but she’s still smiling, nearly glowing from the pleased color in her cheeks, and some knot of protective rage in Shizuo’s chest unwinds a little, breathes itself into more calm.

“I was just coming to bring you back out to the party,” Shinra says, looking between the two occupants of the kitchen without a flicker in his smile. “I thought I’d introduce you to everyone but it looks like you two are already getting along great!”

“We’re  _not_ ,” Shizuo growls at exactly the same moment as the other purrs, “Swimmingly.”

Shizuo grits his teeth, avoids the urge to lash out with a retort or a fist or ideally both, doesn’t even look sideways when he grates, “We hadn’t made it to introductions.”

“Izaya,” Shinra protests. “You’re supposed to be helping me host.”

“Ah, sorry,” the other drawls from over Shizuo’s shoulder. The sound scrapes along Shizuo’s spine like it has teeth, winding every nerve he has into irritation. “I didn’t realize he was an invited guest. I thought he must have just wandered in off the street.”

Shizuo does look, then, baring his teeth in a growl as he meets the steady consideration of the other’s eyes and the immoveable bite of his smile.

“This is Izaya Orihara,” Shinra is saying, though Shizuo doesn’t turn to look at him. “My roommate. I’m sure you two will be seeing a lot of each other!”

“Nice to meet you, Shizuo,” Izaya says, somehow slurring the words into the shape of an insult behind his teeth. Shizuo’s eyes narrow, his exhale turns into a growl, and he doesn’t even try to form the words of a polite lie on his tongue.

He’s never before disliked someone so much, so fast.


	2. Headache

Shizuo wakes up with a crick in his neck, an ache at his temples, and something hard bouncing off his shoulder. It’s a minor impact, nothing really damaging by itself, but it keeps coming with a steady not-quite-rhythm that is becoming painful as it keeps knocking against a forming bruise, and given that Shizuo’s entire body is aching like he tried to lift a truck the night before, the irritation is far from welcome.

He tries reaching up without opening his eyes, waving his hand to swat away whatever is tapping against his shoulder. There’s nothing to feel for a moment; then there’s an impact, a sharp edge catching against his knuckles, and he hisses and snatches his hand back at the same time.

“ _Ow_ ,” he growls, opening his eyes to blink bleary attention at the ache in his skin. There’s a tear, a sharp edge that has caught and dragged into an injury; as he stares at the raw edges of the skin there’s another impact, this one dead center in the forming bruise at his shoulder. “Ow,  _fuck_.”

“Awake yet, Shizu-chan?” 

The voice is lilting, skipping into a range that grates against the inside of Shizuo’s head like a knife scratching against metal. Shizuo’s only heard it a few times before but the memory is fresh in his mind like an open wound, pushes the irritation of his pounding headache aside in favor of dragging his expression into a scowl, tugging his brows low over his eyes as he glares at the unfamiliar wall in front of him.

“ _You._ ” He rolls over onto his back just in time for the usual projectile to hit against his collarbone instead of his shoulder. His hand comes up to grab at it as it slides down en route to the floor, but he misses his attempt; he’s too busy fixing Izaya with the most threatening expression he can manage while feeling too close to death to sit up off the floor. “What are you  _doing_?”

“I  _live_  here,” Izaya declares. He’s leaning over the back of the couch, toying with something in his hand and still smiling the vicious smile that sets Shizuo’s teeth on edge. “You passed out on the floor right when things were getting exciting.” He heaves a sigh, dips his head to shake in what is obvious mockery even before Shizuo can hear the false sympathy in his voice. “I tried to toss you over the balcony but you’re too heavy to move. What did your parents feed you to make you such a monster?”

“Fuck you,” Shizuo growls, enunciating each syllable around the whine of discomfort that is threatening in his throat.

“It really put a damper on things,” Izaya continues with no sign that he’s heard Shizuo’s response at all. “There’s not much  _space_  left after you took it all up.”

“I didn’t  _want_  to sleep on your floor,” Shizuo snaps, gets his arm braced on the carpet so he can push himself half-upright. The advantage gained by not lying flat is dramatically undermined by the way he can feel himself swaying and the hand he has to throw out to catch himself, but at least he makes the effort. “I’ll have to wash for  _hours_  to get the smell off me.”

“Aww,” Izaya grins. There’s movement in Shizuo’s periphery, but his reflexes are too slow to react in time; as it is he barely gets his head up to see what’s coming towards him, processes the incoming object a split-second before it bounces off his cheekbone with enough force to darken the fragile skin into a bruise.

“ _Ow_ ,” he snaps, lifting a hand to press against the impact point while he looks for the projectile itself. It’s a chess piece, lying on the floor in front of him along with a whole host of other mismatched objects -- a few paper clips, a pair of dice, a bottle opener, a single Shogi tile, a handful of playing cards. “What the fuck are you doing?”

“Target practice,” Izaya declares, and there’s another impact, softer this time, another card ruffling Shizuo’s hair as it catches and falls to the floor. “I had to amuse myself somehow.”

Shizuo growls, reaches for an object at random -- a binder clip, as it turns out -- and flings it back in Izaya’s direction. His aim is poor, the attempt fueled more by irritation than deliberate thought, and Izaya dodges easily, tips himself sideways by an inch so the clip brushes just past his hair before it arcs over his shoulder and skids out over the kitchen floor behind him.

“I hate you,” Shizuo says, growling the words since he lacks the motor coordination to actually do anything about them at this particular moment. “I really fucking hate you.”

“I haven’t even  _done_  anything to you,” Izaya says. There’s another toss, an eraser this time; Shizuo gets his hand up in time to bat it away, but Izaya’s lopsided grin doesn’t so much as flicker. “I mean I was  _talking_  about hacking you into manageable pieces so we could move you off the floor, but you weren’t even awake for that anyway.”

“You’re a psychopath,” Shizuo says with as much calmness as he can muster. The words still come out as a hiss of irritation in the back of his throat. “You’re goddamn insane.”

“Mm.” Izaya draws his hand back, aims with another chess piece like it’s a dart; Shizuo’s shoulders tense, his hands tighten in expectation of another toss. Izaya pulls back as if to throw -- and then tosses the piece straight up instead, catching it in the palm of his hand and laughing that awful staticky laugh. “It’s been said. You’re not very original with your insults.”

“Fuck you,” Shizuo offers, succinctly, and Izaya tosses the piece straight at his face before he has time to flinch away. It hits the corner of his mouth, this time, a burst of painful impact against his lower lip, and Shizuo hisses in pain as Izaya crackles laughter at him. “Stop  _throwing_  things at me.”

“I’m only getting revenge,” Izaya declares. A pencil bounces off Shizuo’s shoulder. “You threw a  _table_  at me, after all.”

“I did not,” Shizuo growls, doing his best to ignore the hail of objects being thrown at him since he can’t do anything about it.

“You did.” Izaya tips his head sideways, a jerky motion that pulls Shizuo’s gaze in spite of himself. There  _is_  an upended table against the wall, a mess of plastic cups littered across the floor to match. One of the legs looks wobbly even from the distance Shizuo is at, rather like it had been used as a handle to carry the weight of the rest of the table and not taken well to the treatment.

Shizuo blinks, reaches back through the haze of his memories. He can remember arriving clearly enough, the harsh edges of a meaningless argument before he retreated from the kitchen to safer conversation elsewhere. Then there was a cup, so full it slopped over his hand when pressed into his palm, sharp eyes and that damn smirk taunting him into drinking even as he hissed aggression, and then nothing, just flickering, disjoint images of music and motion and that grating laughter all through it, cutting clear over the sound of dimmer voices and duller music.

“You got me  _drunk_ ,” Shizuo growls, looking back at Izaya. The other has stopped pelting him with objects, from the looks of things simply because he’s run out of them. He’s still tipped over the back of the couch, leaning so far over it must be supporting more of his weight than his own feet, and still offering that taunting smile like he knows some secret Shizuo doesn’t.

“Well, yeah.” A pout, now, eyes going wide and faux-innocent. “It was a  _party_. Can’t you hold your alcohol?”

“I’m going to fucking kill you,” Shizuo growls, tries to push to his feet. The world sags dizzily around him, sends him stumbling forward to catch himself against the soft of the couch; he thinks for a moment he’s going to fall right into Izaya, but the other dodges backwards from that too, only swinging back forward as Shizuo falls to press his hand hard against the other’s shoulder. The contact is heavy, shoving Shizuo forward and off his precarious balance so he topples right into the back of the couch, and he’s hissing protest to the dig of sharp-skinny fingers against his shoulder as Izaya purrs, “That’s exactly what you said last night, Shizu-chan” before twisting away.

By the time Shizuo recovers his balance and looks up, Izaya is nowhere to be found. There’s just the upended coffee table, the array of half-full cups scattered on all available surfaces, and the shadowed darkness of the room to keep him company. He sprawls out over the couch, angling an arm over his face and willing his headache to dissipate enough for him to make his way home sooner rather than later.

Once he’s there, he tells himself, he’ll make sure he never has to bother with Izaya Orihara again.


	3. Obsessed

“I can’t believe you’re laughing at me,” Shizuo sighs to the quivering motion of amusement in Celty’s shoulders.

 _Sorry_ , she signs, then again, in quick succession,  _sorry, sorry, it’s just hilarious_.

“It wasn’t hilarious when it was  _happening_ ,” Shizuo growls, even though any anger he can muster is doomed to fall flat against the tension of a repressed smile at Celty’s mouth. “I can’t believe I got  _drunk_.”

I  _can’t believe you got drunk_ , Celty offers.  _You never do that usually._

“Yeah, well.” Shizuo looks away from the motion of Celty’s hands for a minute, frowns unseeing out at the horizon. “He practically pushed a cup in my hands, it’s not like I was going to say  _no_.” 

He doesn’t have to look sideways to see Celty’s raised eyebrow, the skepticism in her eyes as her fingers shift.  _You say no to other people all the time_.

“Something about him  _bothers_  me,” Shizuo grates by way of a reasonable, mature explanation. This is undermined somewhat by the way he scowls at the ground and the petulant catch at the back of his throat, but there’s only so much he can manage with the memory of that mocking laugh in his ears. “ _Everything_  about him bothers me. Why does Shinra even room with him anyway?”

“Why does Shinra what?”

Shizuo ought to be surprised. The campus isn’t particularly small, after all, and he’s fairly certain Celty’s classes have nothing at all to do with the medical department where Shinra should be. But it took very few weeks for Shinra’s unannounced appearances to become normal, and if Celty jumps at the other’s sudden appearance, flickers a  _What are you doing here?_  at him, Shizuo barely bats an eye.

“How do you  _live_  with that guy?” he asks, even though Shinra is ducking his head in to whisper something to Celty that Shizuo resolutely refuses to listen to and he’s not sure either of them are listening to him anymore. “I could barely stand him for two minutes.”

“Who, Izaya?” Shinra’s wide-eyed gaze reflects both complete innocence and utter confusion, as if there’s some question about either the identity of his roommate or the insufferability of that same individual. “He’s not  _that_  bad. We all have our quirks, right?”

Shizuo has to shut his mouth on the response he  _wants_  to give, turn to stare blankly in front of them while he restrains the bite of temper in his veins. He takes a breath, another; by the time he can trust himself to speak coherently both Celty and Shinra are watching him, Celty’s eyes sympathetic and Shinra’s curious.

“I want to throw him out a window,” is what he finally says, as calmly as he can manage. Even then his voice dips low on the last words, skidding into dangerous sincerity at the idea of Izaya’s skinny shoulders under his hands, at real fear instead of taunting in dark eyes.

A laugh is not the response he is expecting to this pronouncement. Celty is eyeing him with some measure of concern, looking like she maybe wants to say something or ask if he’s alright, but Shinra is laughing, bright and loud and as completely sincere as he is in everything he does, as far as Shizuo can tell. It makes Shizuo a little uncomfortable, the way Shinra usually puts him faintly off-balance, but he seems harmless, if a little morbid, and that’s probably to be expected from a medical student anyway.

“You two really hit it off,” Shinra allows, and those are  _not_  the words Shizuo would have chosen but Shinra’s still talking, bubbling cheerfully as if Shizuo hadn’t just expressed a sincere desire to murder his roommate. “Izaya’s been talking about you nonstop too.”

“ _Too_?” Shizuo does growl, then, cutting off Shinra’s words by sheer resonant volume. “I have  _not_ \--”

 _You kind of have_ , Celty offers, her eyes apologizing for the statement while Shinra continues without pause.

“It’s a little creepy, really,” this with a laugh that seems to say the opposite, punctuated with a headshake more akin to a doting parent than someone with any reasonable level of concern for a clearly unhinged individual. “Every time I mention Celty he asks about you, doesn’t want to hear anything about my romantic bliss.” Shinra heaves a sigh, as if resigning himself to an incomprehensible situation, while Celty flushes dark all across her cheeks and Shizuo grins at this brief moment of amusement in an otherwise miserable situation. “Last time he wouldn’t even let us in the house when he saw it was just us without you. We had to go out to eat instead of enjoying a homecooked meal!”

“I hate him,” Shizuo says, deliberately and with perfect equanimity. “I really really hate him.”

Shinra shrugs. “That’s what he says too,” he allows. He’s not even looking at Shizuo anymore; his attention is caught at Celty’s fingers, where he’s trying to lace together his two smallest fingers with Celty’s. Celty’s got her head ducked in a futile attempt to hide the blush that is still clinging to her cheeks, but she’s smiling too, from what Shizuo can see when she brushes her hair aside. “You don’t have to like each other to be obsessed.”

Shizuo clears his throat, looks carefully away from the tangle of Celty’s and Shinra’s fingers. “I’m going to see if I can track down Kadota before class,” he says. “I’ll catch you two later.” He’s just moving away, pleased with himself for engineering the lovebirds a moment of privacy, when his brain catches up to Shinra’s last words and he pivots back around, a frown catching at his mouth.

“I am  _not_  obsessed!” he shouts after the others’ retreating shoulders.

He’s not even sure they hear him; Shinra looks lost in gazing at Celty, and Celty barely glances back to sign something Shizuo can’t make out at the distance. It doesn’t matter. The declaration is more for himself than it is for them, anyway.


	4. Burn

Shizuo has been on-edge all afternoon.

There’s no reason for it. He had the last of his midterms the week before, has the night off from work and no plans except for the vague possibility of Shinra coming by later in the evening. He has nothing to stress over, nothing to worry about; there’s not even secondhand stress to be borrowed from Celty, the last two weeks of texting and lunch dates apparently enough to take the edge off her usual nervous excitement about seeing Shinra. It’s her idea to put on a movie to pass the time, a familiar rewatch of one of their favorites, but even the comfort of the well-worn dialogue isn’t enough to hold Shizuo in place. He’s on his feet as often as Celty checks her phone, pacing down the hall or going to the kitchen to check the fridge, uncertain if he’s thirsty or hungry or neither. In the end he’s barely on the couch at all, sees half of the movie at most and doesn’t pay attention to that, and by the time the doorbell rings he’s nearly trembling with nervous adrenaline, unnecessary anticipation for something mundane. 

Celty gives him a look of concern as she heads down the hall for the door, asks  _You okay?_  as she pauses, but Shizuo waves her off, ducks his head and thinks about having a drink. It’s not something he’s particularly prone to -- working as a bartender has sapped most of his interest in the usual college pursuit of drinking to excess -- but maybe it would help loosen the uncanny tension knotting itself into the threat of a headache at the base of his skull. He can hear Shinra’s voice from the other end of the hallway, the chirping delight of “Celty!” clear enough Shizuo doesn’t need to see the effusive hug Shinra must be going for. There’s a murmur of sound, something Shizuo is barely paying attention to; then a burst of laughter, sharp and biting, and all the adrenaline in Shizuo’s blood turns into icy dread all at once.

“No  _fucking_  way,” he growls to no one at all as he makes to stomp down the hallway.

It’s too late by the time he makes it around the corner to see their visitors. Celty’s already shut the door, is ushering the pair of guests farther inside, and Shizuo barely spares a glance for her grimace of apology before he’s glaring at Izaya, coming further into  _his_  house as if he’s  _welcome_.

“Get out,” Shizuo says, stepping to cut off Izaya’s advance. Shinra keeps going behind him, the rapidfire stream of his conversation with Celty continuing unabated; he either doesn’t care about the confrontation that is happening or isn’t surprised, and Shizuo doesn’t bother to worry overlong about which it is. Izaya  _is_  stopping, rocking back on his heels and smirking up at Shizuo’s glower. His mouth is a taunt and his eyes are a threat, and Shizuo wants nothing so badly as he wants to crush the sharp line of Izaya’s nose under the weight of his fist. “Get the  _fuck_  out of my  _house_.”

Izaya forms his mouth into a pout, the beg for sympathy stalling out before it can affect the acid heat in his eyes. “But Shizu-chan, how else am I supposed to see you?”

“You  _aren’t_ ,” Shizuo hisses. His hand comes out, though slower than he wants to swing it, his fingers closing into a fist at the jacket over Izaya’s shoulder instead of smashing a bruise into his cheekbone. Shizuo is proud of his own restraint. “I don’t want to see you, I don’t want you  _here_ , get  _out_.”

“And after I brought gifts,” Izaya purrs. When he moves it’s too fast for Shizuo to track, an elegant shift of his feet and movement of his arms; Shizuo’s left holding the weight of a jacket heavier than it first looked, blinking confusion at the dark folds of fabric as Izaya turns sideways and sidles past him before he can think to grab at him.

“ _Stop_ ,” he growls, flings the jacket aside to stomp after Izaya. There’s nowhere for him to go but he’s quick about it anyway, darting around the corner to the kitchen like he’s been in Shizuo’s apartment dozens of times. By the time Shizuo is blocking the entrance to the space Izaya has three cabinets open, is frowning at the contents and rocking up on tiptoe to see them.

“Where do you keep the shot glasses, Shizu-chan?” he asks. Shizuo answers with a growl, steps forward to grab at him, but Izaya’s moving first, climbing up onto the counter so he’s teetering precariously with his knees pressed to the tile and his hands at the edges of the shelves. Shizuo doesn’t care about Izaya’s well-being -- he spares himself a moment to fantasize about the other toppling sideways, the spill of blood and bruises and maybe even a broken bone that would result from a fall -- but it’s his glasses under Izaya’s questing fingers, fluted crystal and the delicate stems of wineglasses that are his one primary indulgence, and he’s not about to risk the safety of those even for the satisfaction of dragging Izaya down bodily. Izaya glances at him, the bright shine of his teeth saying that he understands Shizuo’s hesitance as well as the blond does. Shizuo can feel his jaw set, irritation firing along his spine, but Izaya’s still digging through the glasses, creasing his face into a mockery of attention as he makes a show of his search.

“Honestly,” he sighs. “You have all these fancy things and not ordinary shot glasses?” His laugh is so grating Shizuo fears for the safety of the fragile glass in front of him. “What are you, some kind of bartender?”

“Fuck  _off_ ,” Shizuo snaps.

Izaya raises an eyebrow at him, this time. Shizuo is baring his teeth in incoherent frustration when Izaya’s hand comes out to toss something at him with no warning. It’s only decent coordination and the reflexes of panic that get Shizuo’s hands up in time to catch the shot glass thus offered; he’s just hissing anger when Izaya hops down from the counter with as little ceremony as he climbed onto it, spinning a glass of his own around his index finger.

“Come on,” he announces, turning to reach for a bottle against the far edge of the counter. Shizuo hadn’t even noticed it, for the distraction of Izaya’s casual rummaging through his glasses. “You’re not going to refuse to drink with me, are you?”

Shizuo narrows his eyes at the bottle. It’s absent a label, though he can see what’s left of the white paper clinging to the adhesive on the glass. “What the fuck is that?”

Izaya laughs, tosses his shot glass up to catch and clink upside-down against the counter. “Vodka.” He catches the bottle between his hands, twists with enough force to break the metal seal; Shizuo can see the tendons work in his bony wrists, the minimal effort necessary made clear in the tension of his fingers. “I haven’t spiked it with anything, don’t worry.”

“Yeah,” Shizuo scoffs as Izaya tosses the lid to the side, reaches to retrieve his inverted glass. “You’re definitely the most trustworthy person I know.”

Izaya cuts him a glance. When he’s looking up through the dark curtain of his hair his eyes look black too, the reddish color under them robbed by the shadows obscuring his face.

“What would I even put in it?” he asks. When he tips the bottle it’s to pour into his own glass, clear liquid splashing against the inside and trickling against his thumb. “It took twice as much alcohol to knock you out as it did for anyone else. I’m not about to waste anything more expensive than shitty vodka on someone with your tolerance.”

“You weren’t even  _invited_ ,” Shizuo hisses, retreating to the best argument he has under the frankly incomprehensible circumstances of Izaya Orihara inviting himself into his apartment and helping himself to Shizuo’s kitchen. “Why are you  _here_?”

Izaya flashes his teeth in what cannot even charitably be called a smile, lifts his shot glass to his mouth and swallows in one quick mouthful. He doesn’t even flinch, doesn’t react except to draw the back of his hand over his wet mouth as he tips his head back down.

“I was bored,” he says, and he extends the open bottle of vodka towards Shizuo. “And you’re entertaining.”

There’s a pause. Shizuo’s fingers are tight against the shot glass in his hand, his spine crackling electric with irritation. He still wants to punch Izaya, though he’s not completely sure for what specifically; he has more than enough reasons to choose from, anyway, and hitting him seems to be a decent idea on principle. But Izaya’s grin is still teasing, his eyes darkened into a challenge, and Shizuo knows where this is going even as the other opens his mouth to purr, “Don’t you think you can keep up with me?”

Shizuo knows he’s playing into Izaya’s game, knows it before he reaches out to snatch the weight of the mostly-full bottle from the other’s hold. Shizuo knows he should take a deep breath and step back from his irritation and let himself calm down, knows he shouldn’t be making decisions based on the grate of Izaya’s voice and the taunt in his throat. The knowledge burns in the back of his thoughts like the alcohol burns his throat, vicious and biting and dizzying.

Since he can’t ignore Izaya, he ignores the heat instead.


	5. Shattered

Celty is waiting when Shizuo comes back out into the clinic’s waiting room burdened with a few stitches across his knuckles, a prescription in his pocket, and anger so steeped in retrospect it has mellowed into a low, thrumming hatred in his blood.

 _Are you okay?_  Celty asks as she gets to her feet, her gaze dropping to the neat bandage wrapping Shizuo’s torn knuckles.

“I’m fine,” Shizuo says, very calmly and reasonably. There’s no reason at all for Celty to flash him the look she does, with her forehead creasing into concern he doesn’t need words to parse. He’s completely calm, there’s no chance of any kind of a violent backlash at all, there is no problem at all. “Let’s go home.” 

Celty raises an eyebrow at him, lifts a hand like she’s thinking about saying something, but Shizuo is leading the way out of the clinic before she can speak, even thinking to hold the door for her as she trails in his wake.

 _Should we go to the pharmacy?_  she asks as they head for the scooter parked in the mostly-empty lot behind the urgent care clinic.

“No.” Shizuo flexes his hand, tests the range of motion of his fingers; the ache hurts, spikes up his arm with the pressure he’s putting on the new stitches, but it’s tolerable enough even with the sharp bite still lingering from antiseptic. “I’ll just take some ibuprofen, it’s fine.”

Celty lifts a shoulder in the capitulation of a shrug, ducks her head so she can dig through her pocket for the keys. Shizuo waits with the utmost patience, considers the burn of the sun against the back of his neck, and the tension over his bandaged hand, and the catch of the engine as Celty gets the scooter started. He doesn’t think about the night before at all, either the burn of alcohol or the sticky slur of laughter or the impact of glass breaking under his fist. He very, very carefully doesn’t think about any of that, either while Celty is steadying her balance so he can climb on the back of the scooter or as she drives them back to their apartment with her usual deliberate care along the familiar roads. It’s hard for Shizuo to maintain his balance with his right hand unwilling to tighten against the frame of the scooter; he suspects Celty has figured as much, is grateful to her somewhat slower speed although he doesn’t acknowledge it aloud.

It’s still dark in the apartment when they come back in, the blinds drawn and none of the lights on. Shinra is where they left him, hunched over the kitchen table and apparently absorbed in something on his phone. He leaves it as soon as the door shuts behind them, though, looking up with a “Welcome back!” as cheerfully as if it’s his house and not their own. “How did it go?”

“Fine,” Shizuo says as he kicks his shoes off and comes in farther. “Have you just been sitting here in the dark?”

“Oh,” Shinra says, and Celty flicks the switch on to cast the room into a golden glow. “I hadn’t noticed.” He sets his phone on the table, gets to his face to come towards Shizuo with the wide-eyed excitement he usually reserves for Celty. “What did they end up doing?”

“A few stitches,” Shizuo says. Shinra’s grabbing at his wrist, peering at the clean cover of the bandage like the white wrapping will magically tell him what’s underneath it; Shizuo lets him, doesn’t attempt to pull away from the clinically careful touch. “Nothing broken, just some bruises and cuts. It should be fine in a day or two.”

“I told you I could have done it for you,” Shinra sighs, sounding as disappointed as if Shizuo has deprived him of some favorite treat. “It’s just stitches, I’ve done those dozens of times.”

“Thanks,” Shizuo deadpans, tugs his hand free so he can flex his fingers again, test his range of motion until he pushes the edge of pain. “Finish school first.”

Shinra heaves a sigh of put-on hurt feelings as Shizuo turns away towards the faint gust of fresh air spilling into the room. “I cleaned up the glass while you two were gone.”

Shizuo pauses, glances back. Shinra’s watching him with his usual smile, the weird one that makes him look sincerely delighted when he has no reason to be. Then again Celty is coming up the hall, stepping in close enough for Shinra to take her hand if not to loop his arm around her shoulders like he obviously wants to, so maybe he has a reason after all.

“Thanks,” Shizuo says, as sincere as Shinra’s smile, turns back to draw the blind up and consider the jagged edges of the broken glass still in the window frame.

“It was the least I could do,” Shinra says from behind him. “I’m surprised, really; you have to hit really hard to put your fist through glass like that. You’re remarkably strong!”

Shizuo stares at the broken window, the way the shattered glass turns the sunlight into an array of illumination that catches at his eyes and blinds him when he tries to look at it. When he flexes his hand the stitches drag at his skin, the ache in his knuckles an echo of the jaw-clenching fury that elicited the swinging attempt at Izaya’s laughing face the night before. He thinks about the satisfaction of breaking bones, the crunch of Izaya’s nose shattering under his fist and the cough of Izaya’s blood instead of the spill of his own as the glass gave way to his swing, and when he takes a breath it’s weighted with the satisfaction of the fantasy.

“I really fucking hate your roommate, Shinra.”


	6. Kick

The worst part about the stitches, Shizuo finds, is how hard it is to write with them.

The pain isn’t bad most of the time. He can keep his balance when perched on the back of Celty’s motorcycle, can more or less manage the cups and bottles at work, can even get dressed without difficulty as long as he’s careful not to catch his healing skin against the inside seams of his shirts. But he can’t get his hand to close around the narrow width of a pencil, at least not for any length of time, and when he does the raw ache of the strain it entails is so distracting he can’t focus on what he’s trying to write.

The biggest problem this causes is in class. He can attend the lectures, can type up any assignments he needs during the few days it will take his knuckles to mend, but the possibility of notes seems impossible between the pain of his right hand and the unintelligibility of his left. He tests the possibility in the few minutes before the professor arrives, gritting his teeth against the pressure on his knuckles and fumbling through barely one unreadable word before he has to loosen his grip and growl resignation to his failure.

“You know, I knew you were dumb but I didn’t figure you to be  _illiterate_ , Shizu-chan.”

Shizuo doesn’t jump. He feels this is a remarkable achievement, given that the all-too-recognizable voice is coming from just over his shoulder, near enough that the words ruffle a burn of warm air against the back of his neck.

“ _You_ ,” he hisses, his hand tightening of its own volition against the pencil. He doesn’t feel the stretch of hurt at all for the pound of blood in his veins. “What the  _fuck_  are you doing in  _my_  class?”

“Your class?” Izaya repeats. “Shizu-chan, this room is  _full_  of people. It’s hardly  _your_  class.”

The pencil gives way to Shizuo’s grip, splintering into graphite and sharp points of wood. Shizuo barely notices. “Go  _away_ , you’re not even  _in_  this class.”

“How do you know?” There’s a burst of pain, an impact hard against the back of Shizuo’s neck, and he reaches up to smack at it, not even registering the hurt as the flick of a finger until his hand presses against the impact. He does turn, then, twisting in his seat to fix Izaya with the best glare he can manage, but Izaya’s already leaning back, slouching down in his chair and grinning in a way that makes Shizuo wish for another window to smash, or maybe just a better angle for his fist to crush the brittle of Izaya’s smile into torn-soft red across a split lip. There’s motion in his periphery, enough to catch his attention in anticipation of violence, but Izaya’s just swinging his foot up onto the back of the neighboring chair, the scuffed black of his boot tipping in an idle rhythm as if to some music Shizuo doesn’t hear.

“Take your feet off the chair,” Shizuo growls, the attempt at command as irrepressible as it is futile.

“No one’s using it,” Izaya points out, swings his leg in sideways to kick at Shizuo’s shoulder. Shizuo hisses, a rush of infuriated adrenaline surging into his blood as he twists in his chair to attempt a grab at Izaya’s foot.

“ _Izaya_ ,” he growls, forgetting to restrain the volume of the name in his throat as easily as he forgets the ache in his knuckles to fist his hands into expectant weapons.

“Heiwajima,” comes a voice from the front of the room, and Shizuo  _does_  jump at that, startled back around with all the shock of sudden guilt at being called out. The professor is watching him, arms crossed and eyebrows raised; Shizuo’s anger flags and fails under the force of her consideration, his hands going slack and shoulders slumping in his seat. “If you have something to say, you can feel free to say it  _outside_  of my class.”

“Yes ma’am,” Shizuo says, ducking his head against the burn of shame across his cheeks. There’s a moment’s pause; then she clears her throat, begins to speak in a voice loud enough to carry to the back of the room.

It’s loud enough, too, to cover the hiss of Izaya’s voice when he leans in to flick the back of Shizuo’s neck again. “You can borrow my notes, Shizu-chan,” he purrs.

Shizuo moves fast, this time, snapping his hand out whip-quick to grab at Izaya’s fingers and twist them past the ability of muscle and joint to keep them whole. But Izaya’s quicker, snatches his hand back with another skid of laughter in his throat, and Shizuo resists the urge to twist around to glare at him or lunge over the back of the row of seats and just strangle the sound right out of his throat.

Shizuo ends up paying more attention to the knock of Izaya’s boot kicking the back of his chair and the slow simmer of fury in his blood than to anything the professor says the entire class.


	7. Paranoid

“I’m pretty sure he’s not even  _in_  that class,” Shizuo concludes. “I don’t even know how he figured out  _I_  was, unless Shinra told him.”

“Did he?” Kasuka asks without looking up from his lunch.

“I asked him and he said he didn’t,” Shizuo admits. He can’t picture Shinra lying about this, doesn’t know why he would, but he can’t think of a better explanation and he can’t imagine Celty passing on the information.

Kasuka shrugs, appearing wholly unfazed by the inexplicable appearance of the individual rapidly becoming Shizuo’s sworn nemesis at every possible event in his brother’s life. “Just chance, then.”

“It’s not  _just chance_ ,” Shizuo growls, looking down and stabbing at his lunch with vastly more aggression than the act of eating requires. “He’s  _literally everywhere_.”

“He’s not here,” Kasuka points out.

It’s intended as comfort, or at least rationality, Shizuo thinks. It sounds like tempting fate, persuades him to look up to scan the mostly-empty restaurant just in case. It should be hard to tell they’re there; Shizuo has a sweater on instead of his usual jacket, the hood pulled up to cover the yellow of his bleached hair, and Kasuka is hidden in an overlarge t-shirt under a jacket and a hat that obscures most of his face when he ducks. The unusual attire is to disguise nearly-famous Kasuka more than to avoid Izaya, but Shizuo has still found it something of a relief to know he can’t be easily spotted from any distance.

He realizes this is somewhat paranoid; it’s not like Izaya has cameras installed everywhere Shizuo might go, after all. It’s still a comforting reflection.

“It’s a miracle he’s  _not_ ,” Shizuo says instead of putting words to the anxiety he can’t quite shrug off, the extra weight he’s been carrying of expecting Izaya around every corner or every time he answers a call from an unknown number. “I’m telling you, he’s deliberately trying to ruin my life.”

Kasuka doesn’t even blink. He takes another bite of his food, chews, swallows, takes a sip of water. It’s only after a few minutes of silence that Shizuo’s continued stare apparently tips him off that a response is required, and then he takes a moment to set his glass down and clear his throat before he speaks.

“You sound paranoid,” he declares. Apparently Shizuo’s attempt at subtlety didn’t work out as well as he had hoped. “You have a lot of shared friends.” A shrug as Kasuka’s attention drifts back to his plate again. “It’s probably just coincidence.”

“You’re not  _listening_ ,” Shizuo groans. “He  _set me up_  in class. He showed up to my apartment uninvited and made me punch a  _window_.”

Kasuka considers the half-healed stitches across Shizuo’s knuckles. “You punched the window yourself.”

Shizuo looks down, flexes his hand in the idle motion that has become unconscious over the last few days. The motion barely hurts at all, now; he only notices the ache when he thinks about it, or if he clenches his fist as tight as he can. “He got me  _drunk_.”

“You drank what he gave you,” Kasuka points out as he finishes his last bite of lunch. “You could have refused.”

“No I  _couldn’t_ ,” Shizuo growls, knowing he sounds ridiculous, hearing the strain of irrationality knocking any truth out of his words before they leave his throat. “He makes me so  _mad_ , it’s like I lose control of what I’m doing.”

“So you throw coffee tables,” Kasuka says.

“ _Yes_ ,” Shizuo groans, falling back in his seat. He’s flexing his hand again, a stuttering rhythm that strains his stitches enough that his skin is starting to protest even the gentle motion of his fingers.

Kasuka sighs, shrugs as he pushes his empty plate aside. “You sound really hung up on him.”

“ _What_ ,” Shizuo blurts, all his skin going chill with a shiver of horror. “What,  _no_ , I’ve been telling you it’s  _him_  that--”

“You’ve been talking about him all afternoon,” Kasuka says with as much calm as if Shizuo hadn’t spoken at all.

“I have  _not_ ,” Shizuo growls, denial without any consideration of reality going into the statement.

“Yes,” Kasuka says, “You have.” Their waiter comes by to offer the bill to Kasuka instead of Shizuo; Shizuo suspects this may be because his shoulders are hunching in on themselves with barely-restrained fury, only the self-control demanded by the public setting and affection for his brother preventing the explosion in his veins from snapping free.

“I can get that,” Shizuo says, because he always says it.

“It’s fine,” Kasuka says, because he always does, already folding a handful of bills under the edge of his plate. Shizuo considers the cut of Kasuka’s clothes, the new-purchase shine still on his shoes, the stylish line of his hairstyle, and he doesn’t protest further.

“Modelling going well?” he offers as they get up to leave, an attempt at apology for his monopoly of the conversation over the table itself.

“Sure,” Kasuka says. “They want me to start taking acting roles soon.”

“Are you going to?” Shizuo can feel the stress in his shoulders unknotting a little, the reassurance of his brother’s success in spite of his own troubles as comforting as it ever is. Even the constant tension of Izaya’s existence taunting his peace feels a little farther off, like maybe it really doesn’t matter all that much, maybe Kasuka is right and it’s just a lot of coincidences.

“Sure,” Kasuka says again. Shizuo follows him out of the restaurant, into the breeze turning the warm of the spring air brisk against his skin. For a minute they’re quiet, Kasuka working at his zipper to fasten the front of his jacket and Shizuo appreciating the uncommon calm in his veins, the cool of the air in his lungs unburdened by hallucinations of distant laughter.

“Shizuo,” Kasuka says, and Shizuo blinks himself back into the present, focusing himself on his brother’s face again. Kasuka is watching him, his gaze steady and so calm he appears uninterested in the conversation, but he asked for Shizuo’s attention, and that alone is remarkable enough to warrant focus.

Shizuo’s forehead creases in confusion. “Yeah?”

“Don’t punch any more windows,” Kasuka says. Then he nods, an easy motion of farewell, and he’s moving past Shizuo on the sidewalk, leaving his brother to scowl unseeing down the street in front of him as his hand tenses itself into an unconscious fist.


	8. Spill

“I dunno,” Kadota says, shrugging his way into another sip of coffee. “He can definitely be kind of a dick but he’s never been that bad with me.”

“Izaya’s fun!” Erika chirps. “Dotachin just doesn’t like his nickname.”

“Erika,” Kadota growls, but he doesn’t offer any more protest than that.

“It sounds like he’s being friendly,” Walker puts in.

“I punched a  _window_ ,” Shizuo hisses. “What about that is  _friendly_?”

“He brought you alcohol!” Walker tips in to reach over Erika and steal her paper-cup coffee. “That’s friendly.”

“Alcohol isn’t that big of a deal when you have a job and can buy it yourself,” Kadota says. “Can’t you just avoid him?”

“ _No_ ,” Shizuo groans, leaning forward to glare into his own barely-touched mug of tea. “He’s  _everywhere_ , that’s what I’m trying to tell you. You didn’t tell him what classes I’m taking, did you?”

“What classes  _are_  you taking?” Erika asks.

“No,” Kadota answers. “We don’t see much of him other than at Shinra’s parties.”

“Are you sure you’re not the one chasing him?” Erika offers from across the table. Shizuo doesn’t need to look up to see the suspicious glint in her eyes or the slow delight in her smile. “Maybe he’s trying to seduce you.”

“Erika,” Kadota sighs.

“No, really!” Erika reaches out to retrieve her cup of coffee from Walker’s hand just before he takes another drink. From how bright her eyes are, Shizuo isn’t sure she needs any more caffeine than she’s already had. “It’s so romantic. Izaya appearing whenever you least expect him, always when you’re thinking of him -- until you realize you’re  _always_  thinking of him --”

“ _Erika_.” That’s Kadota and Togusa together, now, wearing matching expressions of resigned frustration.

“--He’s all you think about, all you talk about--oh, oh, are you dreaming about him?”

“Yeah, about  _breaking his face_ ,” Shizuo grates. He can feel his jaw working, clenching painfully tight in an involuntary rhythm. “I  _fucking hate_  him.”

He is expecting this to slow Erika down. It’s a symptom of his lack of understanding, he thinks, that her eyes just glow the brighter at this statement.

“ _Hate into love_ ,” she breathes with every indication of complete bliss. “Dotachin, it’s  _so romantic_.”

“Walker,” Kadota sighs. Walker turns in towards Erika, who calmly sets her coffee cup down on the table and leans back before allowing Walker to press his palm over her mouth and cut off the possibility of continued insanity.

“Sorry about that,” Kadota sighs. “Izaya’s not usually as irritating as he sounds like he’s being. Maybe he just really doesn’t like you.”

“Yeah, well, it’s mutual.” Shizuo twists his cup of tea, frowning into the faint mirror the liquid makes in the mug.

Kadota’s grin is startling as it ever is, comforting even when coupled with the throaty chuckle that spills past his lips. “At least you have that much in common.”

Shizuo looks up from his tea to give Kadota a flat stare. “Very funny.” He lifts his tea to his mouth, takes a sip; the liquid is still hot enough that he can feel the pleasant burn of the steam as he swallows. “I don’t want to have anything in common with that fucking asshole.”

Kadota coughs, clears his throat. “I hate to say this,” he says, with the slow consideration that says he’s being sincere. “But Erika kind of has a point.” There’s a chirping note of delight from the girl in question, a flailing arm that nearly makes it around Kadota’s shoulders before Walker manages to drag Erika backwards to fall over the bench and out of range of her burst of effusive affection. “You seem a little bit hung up on--”

Shizuo is listening, he really is. His attention is completely centered on Kadota’s words, and Kadota’s face, and Kadota’s point. So he has no explanation at all for why he looks away all at once, as startled-fast as if a hand had tapped his shoulder. The window next to them is faintly hazy with steam and marked with the cafe’s logo; it’s hard to see out of, usually provides enough of a barrier that Shizuo can ignore the steady stream of passersby on the sidewalk. But he’s not looking at the near sidewalk; his attention skips right past that, across the street to the far side as his shoulders tense with prescient irritation.

He  _knows_ , knows without even seeing. It’s not a surprise to meet the knife-edge red of Izaya’s gaze, the smirk of taunting that lances through Shizuo as if he’s being electrocuted. Kadota’s words vanish out of importance, Shizuo’s own half-finished cup of tea becomes abruptly irrelevant, and when he shoves his bench back to lurch to his feet it’s with a hissed, “ _Izaya_ ,” that is more voice for the steam of rage in his veins than a deliberate sound.

There are voices, Shizuo can hear them in white-noise haze. Kadota’s low rumble of surprise, Togusa’s cut-off note of panic as Shizuo’s cup teeters and threatens to fall. There’s a tangle of limbs as Erika and Walker sit back up all at once, Walker diving to save the tea as Erika seizes her coffee to save it from the same fate. But Shizuo is moving, in too much of a rush to bother with apologies or goodbyes. The door comes open, he stumbles out onto the sidewalk, and Izaya’s still grinning at him from across the street, sliding a hand out of his overlarge jacket to flutter his fingers in an approximation of a wave.

“ _Izaya!_ ” Shizuo shouts with no thought to the other pedestrians on the sidewalk, completely oblivious to the universal startle the burst of sound elicits from those around him.  
Izaya doesn’t startle at all. He laughs, the sound high and grating and carrying implausibly across the hum of voices and the purr of car engines, and then he lifts his hand to his mouth to press a kiss against his fingers, to blow mocking affection across the road at Shizuo. Shizuo flinches as if it were a blow, growling himself into the red-blind fury of uncontrolled rage, and Izaya turns to stroll away as if their interaction is over.

“ _Izaya_ ,” Shizuo bellows, and he’s moving forward, bolting forward across the road without even checking for cars. There’s the sound of a horn, close enough that it would make him jump if he weren’t a being of pure adrenaline at this point, and he has to stumble sideways to avoid actual collision with a bumper. He doesn’t pause even at that, just keeps moving forward because Izaya is running now, too, sprinting with an easy stride that nonetheless is carrying him towards the corner and distance from Shizuo’s gaze. “ _Get the fuck back here!_ ”

Shizuo clears the road, turns to bolt up the sidewalk in pursuit, but Izaya’s vanished around the corner in question, even the flick of his jacket like the flutter of wings gone by the time Shizuo turns to follow. There’s no trace of him, either his jacket or his grin or his laugh, just a sidewalk full of strangers drawing back from Shizuo like he’s crazy, like  _he’s_  the one to be feared.

Shizuo pants for a moment, breathless and trembling with adrenaline gone useless with a lack of someone to chase. Then he takes a breath, and opens his mouth, and screams, “ _IZAYA!_ ,” with as much furious volume as he can muster.

He wishes it made him feel better.


	9. Static

_It’s fascinating_ , Celty insists. Her eyes are bright, hazy with focus on something unseen the way she gets when she talks about her classes, and Shizuo might not be completely following her explanation but he’s still grinning, caught in the contagious joy of seeing someone else truly enthusiastic.  _Do you know how much of the folklore is repeated across different cultures? The differences are telling too, the way something evil becomes amusing or something neutral is cast as inherently malicious._

“I don’t know,” Shizuo admits around his smile. “I’m sure you’ll tell me.”

Celty makes a face, pauses a moment so she can reach out over the table and smack his shoulder.  _Don’t tease me_.

“I’m not teasing,” Shizuo says. “You’re cute when you get excited. This is much better than when Shinra wants to talk about  _his_  classes.”

Celty grimaces, offers  _Yeah_  in simple agreement. For a moment neither of them speak, gone still and silent remembering Shinra’s... _evocative_  description of the autopsy he watched in his last class.

Shizuo shakes his head. “Anyway.”

 _Right_. Celty still looks a little pale, like her blood hasn’t yet decided to return to where it belongs, but she pushes her hair back behind her ear and leans forward with every visible intention of continuing her analysis.  _The most important thing to keep in mind--_

The electronic beeping is impossible for Shizuo to place for a moment. His first thought is the fire alarm, or the timer on the microwave, but it’s too quiet to be an alarm and neither of them is cooking anything. He twists sideways, thinking maybe it’s his alarm from the morning going off for some reason, and then Celty’s hand closes on his arm. When he turns she’s proffering his cell phone, face-up so he can see the glow that accompanies an incoming call.

“Oh,” Shizuo says, and sits back down. “What the fuck?” It’s just a number on the screen without a name of a picture attached, a string of digits outside their area code and with no pattern Shizuo recognizes from any of the very few numbers he’s had occasion to memorize. Kasuka never calls him, anyway, and if it’s someone from work they’re not calling from the main line. Still, Shizuo vaguely remembers a list of phone numbers tacked alongside the office door, instructions to call if you need a shift covered, and just because he’s never made use of it doesn’t mean the possibility of some extra money isn’t appealing.

“Shizuo Heiwajima,” he says formally as he picks up the phone.

There’s a crackle of what sounds like static, sound too mechanical or too high to pick up well on the receiver. Then a breath, an inhale clear and unmistakable, and “ _Shizu-chan!_ ” and Shizuo’s hand tightens so hard he would swear he can hear the plastic of the case creak.

“ _Izaya_ ,” he growls, hissing the word into the shape of hatred on his tongue. He’s staring unseeing at the table, now, all his attention tuned in to the voice made high and tinny by the distance, but in his periphery Celty’s eyebrows go up, her hands flicker into the shape of disbelief.

Shizuo doesn’t answer her incredulity. He has other things to worry about. “How the  _fuck_  did you get the number?”

Izaya laughs, even the put-upon condescension in his throat grating into the hum of meaningless static on the line. “You don’t think your phone number is a  _secret_ , do you?”

“I sure don’t want  _you_  to have it,” Shizuo growls.

“And this is why I couldn’t ask you directly,” Izaya sighs, as if this is a terrible burden for him to bear. “Luckily I have my ways of getting information.”

“I’m going to kill you,” Shizuo says, the words going so far past the heat of threat that they feel cold and overheavy in his throat. “Why are you  _following_  me?”

“Oh Shizu-chan.” There’s something strange in Izaya’s voice, a tone absent amusement or teasing either one. Shizuo’s forehead creases, confusion threatening his veins with calm. “It’s not that hard, really.”

“Why?” Shizuo asks, weirdly breathless with anticipation for the answer.

There’s a pause, a deep inhale. Then: “Because you’re  _fun_ ,” and Shizuo’s patience gives way like rotting wood.

“ _Fuck you_ ,” he growls over the sound of Izaya dissolving into giggles on the other end of the line. “ _Fuck_  you, Izaya, go to  _hell_ ,”

“You’re always so  _inventive_  with your insults,” Izaya purrs. “I’ll see you soon, Shizu-chan.”

“Like  _hell_  you will,” Shizuo starts, but the hum of connection at the other end cuts off halfway, leaves him with the flatline silence of a disconnected call. When he snatches the phone back from his ear there’s nothing but the home-screen picture of he and Kasuka on opposite sides of a table and the flashing notification that his call lasted 47 seconds.

When he looks up Celty is watching him, her eyebrows raised and her hands asking  _Izaya?_  with more certainty than question.

“How the  _hell_  did he get my number?” Shizuo demands without really expecting an answer. “Why won’t he  _leave me alone_?”

It’s not intended as a sincere question. Celty’s raised eyebrows say she knows that, her raised hands that she has no reply anyway.

“I’m going out,” Shizuo says before she can start forming the answer he doesn’t really want to hear. “I’ll be back later.”

He leaves his phone on the table behind him, and when he comes back hours later, there’s no sign of missed calls.


	10. Seething

“ _God_ ,” Shizuo growls to the top of the kitchen table, slams his fist down against the surface as gently as he can manage, though it still wobbles dangerously enough that Celty has to reach for her cup of coffee to save it from the risk of toppling over and spilling across the surface. Shizuo flinches apology, but his mouth and mind are both too occupied in seething to offer vocal acknowledgment just at the moment. “I fucking  _hate_  him.”

Celty offers a lopsided frown, scrunching up her face into sympathy that doesn’t require the clarification of her hands. It’s enough to ease some of the stress in Shizuo’s chest, to comfort him with the reassurance that at least one person isn’t determined to take his profound distaste as some sort of weird obsession.

“I swear he’s  _everywhere_ ,” Shizuo groans, this time tipping forward to press his forehead to the table instead of his fist. “At school, downtown, on the street. He  _called_  me the other day.” The words are familiar, he can taste the bitter of the irritated statement clinging to his tongue even after days of repetition. “It doesn’t matter what I do. He’s  _following_  me, I swear.”

There’s a tap at his shoulder, fingers gently prodding for his attention. Shizuo turns his head sideways rather than sitting up, blinks up at Celty as she sets her cup down so she can offer a response.

 _Are you sure he’s following you?_  It’s coupled with an apologetic grimace again, the expression twisting at her mouth and creasing her forehead, but it’s uncertainty all the same, doubt clear in the dark of her eyes.  _Maybe he was just downtown randomly_.

“In my  _class_ ,” Shizuo repeats, pushes to sit upright again. “He  _called_  my  _phone_. I don’t know how he’s doing it but he  _is_.”

 _Could he have looked you up in the directory?_  Celty offers next, but Shizuo’s shaking his head before she’s even finished forming the words.

“No way.” It’s a sigh, heavy with frustration but at least absent the overwhelming rage Izaya elicits in person. It’s a relief, to know that with anyone else Shizuo can successfully keep the madness of his temper in check. “I made that private when Kasuka started getting popular, remember?”

Celty’s expression softens, her frown turning into a gentle smile to match the elegant shift of her fingers.  _You worry too much about protecting him_.

“He doesn’t need my actions reflecting on him,” Shizuo growls, retreading the path of an argument made easy and toothless by repetition. “Better that no one know we’re related.” But that leads back to Izaya too, as  _everything_  does, and Shizuo grimaces again, can feel the crease that seems to be becoming perpetual reform itself across his forehead.

“Izaya knew that  _too_ ,” he hisses, hunching back forward over the table. “How did he  _know_  that, he took one look at me and knew.  _God_ , if I could just shake it out of him I’d--”

“Celty!” The name is sing-song, chirping bright and delighted down the hall nearly before Shizuo has heard the front door open. Celty twists away from the table, her attention entirely caught by Shinra’s arrival, and Shizuo rocks back from their conversation, turning to look towards the sunshine-glow from the open front door instead. There’s the sound of the door swinging shut, the light cut off by its motion, and then Shinra’s coming down the hallway, nearly jogging so he comes into sight while Celty is still getting to her feet to sign welcome while her smile speaks for her.

“You look beautiful,” Shinra says before he’s seen Shizuo at all, looking as enamored of Celty as he ever does even though she’s wearing her ordinary jeans and a tank top. It makes Shizuo grin, pleased with the satisfaction of Celty being appreciated as she ought to be and amused by the predictability of Celty’s accompanying blush as her hands fall still. Shinra steps in closer, reaches to curl his fingers against the back of Celty’s neck, and Shizuo looks away and out the window to give them at least the illusion of privacy for a moment.

It’s a good idea in theory. In practice Shizuo stares out the window, and waits, and waits, and waits, and even when he risks a glance back Shinra’s still got a hand tangled into Celty’s hair, and if anything Celty looks more distracted by what she’s doing than when they started. If they were anywhere other than in the hallway Shizuo would make a graceful retreat and leave them to it; as it is, though, he can’t get past them with any subtlety and he doesn’t particularly want to run the risk that they’ll get much farther before remembering he’s here. So he clears his throat, a cough that feels awkwardly loud even to himself, and if he’s pink with self-consciousness as the other two break apart at least they do, in fact, separate.

“Hey there Shizuo!” Shinra offers with as much unselfconscious pleasure as if he had only just come into the apartment. Celty slides sideways and free of his hold, smoothing her hair with one hand and offering  _sorry_  with the other to Shizuo; Shizuo snorts a laugh, waves off the apology as Celty resumes her seat and Shinra comes over to lean over the back of her chair.

“What were you two doing?” he asks with no visible trace of embarrassment at letting himself in the front door. “I didn’t interrupt anything, did I?”

“No,” Shizuo growls, his tone dropping into the resonance of irritation while Celty reaches for her phone to type out a more coherent response. It takes her longer to write than it would to just say  _Shizuo hates your fucking roommate_ , and Shinra lingers over the message longer than it would take to read it; by the time Shinra offers a drawn out “Ahh,” of understanding Shizuo is frowning suspicion across the table. “Izaya’s bugging you again?”

“He’s  _stalking_  me,” Shizuo hisses. “And no one fucking believes me.”

“I believe you,” Shinra offers so rapidly it cuts off Shizuo’s usual tirade before he can gain traction. Shizuo rocks back in surprise, Celty twists around to gaze shock at Shinra, and Shinra continues on with complete innocence. “He’s got a whole bunch of notes all over the apartment for your classes and work and stuff like that.” He looks back at Celty, as casual as if he hadn’t just dropped shocking information into the conversation. “Do you have some more coffee, darling?”

Celty flushes crimson at the pet name but gestures vaguely towards the kitchen; Shinra extracts himself from around the back of her chair and goes in search of a cup. Shizuo watches him, too focused on the impossible vindication of all his suspicions to even spare of a moment of amusement for Celty’s embarrassment.

“He barely even talks to me,” Shinra continues as he retrieves a mug and pokes tentatively at the coffeepot. “He’s usually pretty chatty but he’s never around anymore.” He downs the first cup at a go, refills the mug with a second before he returns to Celty’s chair. “I just assumed he was out looking for you.”

“ _Why_?” Shizuo grates. “What the fuck does he even  _want_  with me?”

“Dunno,” Shinra shrugs, as if this is the least important question to be asking. “You should come over some night and ask him yourself.”

“ _Fuck that_ ,” Shizuo snaps. “I don’t  _want_  to see him, why the  _fuck_  would I go looking for him?”

Shinra blinks at him with a wide-eyed innocence more suspicious than otherwise. “Well, you’re mad about seeing him when you don’t expect to, right?” He takes a sip of coffee, tips his head to offer a smile so warm and genuine Shizuo’s intense suspicion falls flat and helpless to its friendliness. “At least at our place you’ll know he’s going to be there.”

“That’s--” Shizuo starts. Then he pauses, processes what Shinra is actually saying instead of who he’s saying it about. “Wait. Are you  _encouraging_  me to come over so I can beat your roommate to a bloody pulp?”

“Sure!” Shinra says with that same sincere smile. “It’ll be a chance to work out your differences.”

Shizuo stares at Shinra for a long moment. Shinra stares right back, his smile unwavering as he swallows another overlong mouthful of coffee.

“Really,” Shizuo says finally, slow and careful on the words so they’re stripped of any potentially confusing anger. “You’re completely fucking insane, you do know that, right?”

“Haha,” Shinra laughs, without any shift in his expression to indicate the least hint of offense. “It’s been said!”

“That is not a comfort,” Shizuo deadpans, primarily because it will make Shinra laugh and Celty grin down into her cup, and will -- he hopes -- distract from the fact that he hasn’t  _refused_  Shinra’s idea.

It’s a little embarrassing to admit how easily he capitulated, even if for the excellent cause of crushing Izaya’s nose with his fist.


	11. Cheat

“You’re  _cheating_.”

It’s hard to make out Izaya’s expression clearly through the haze currently settled over Shizuo’s vision. Luckily there’s not much question of the other’s reaction, no real surprise when Shizuo shuts one eye and squints hard enough at Izaya to bring the lopsided drag of his grin into focus.

“Shizu-chan.” It’s a sigh, accompanied by a resigned headshake that doesn’t fool Shizuo for a moment in spite of the dizzy spin of his thoughts. “How  _exactly_  would I be cheating?” Izaya leans back, spreads his hands wide as if in demonstration. “Slipping cards up my nonexistent sleeves?”

“Shut up,” Shizuo slurs. “I don't trust you, you're  _definitely_  cheating.”

“You can distrust me all you want,” Izaya says. He lets his arms drop, reaches out to collect the fall of dropped cards from their last round. The light catches the bare skin of his shoulders into unhealthy pallor, enough of an uncanny paleness to draw Shizuo's alcohol-bleary gaze as Izaya shuffles the cards together into a more-or-less neat stack. “But at least  _try_  to be reasonable.”

“You're stacking the deck,” Shizuo tries. It's impossible to track the motion of Izaya's fingers; they're too fast, or his focus is too absent to allow for any reasonable attention. The rectangles seem to flicker – shapes-then-color, half-glimpsed Kings and Queens before they are suddenly the familiar blue geometry of card backs. “You're...you're setting up my hand to be shitty.”

“How much do you think  _I've_  been drinking?” Izaya asks. There's a flutter of motion, cards spilling from his fingers to spill in a wave across the floor. Shizuo frowns at the movement, reaches out to shove at them as Izaya sighs and drags his fingers over the surface to collect them. His hand skims against Shizuo's, the edge of fingernails scraping the other's knuckles, and Shizuo hisses and snatches his hand back. “Just because you've drunk enough to kill three  _normal_  people doesn't mean you have a monopoly on intoxication.”

“Yeah, well.” Shizuo blinks, tries to focus on the slide of the cards through Izaya's bony fingers. “I've had more than you have.”

“And you weigh twice what I do.” Izaya fishes a card out of the deck, flicks it too fast for Shizuo's eyes to follow. It skates through the air as if over a surface, the corner hitting Shizuo's collarbone and cutting a path of brief pain before the hurt is lost to the alcohol haze again. “Blame your loss on your awful poker face, Shizu-chan, not on me cheating.”

“You really do have a terrible poker face,” Shinra puts in from the couch. Shizuo turns his head to fix Shinra with a glare, or the best he can manage under the circumstances; he feels like he does a good job, given that he has to keep one eye shut to keep the world from swinging dizzily around him. Shinra appears unfazed; he made the probably reasonable decision to withdraw from the game of strip poker when Celty did, which left him with both his pants and shirt intact and Celty with her underwear and a truly remarkable blush that has yet to fully fade. Both of them are smiling, though, Shinra's with more of an edge than Celty's half-repressed amusement, and Shizuo isn't completely sure if they're laughing with him or at him and doesn't care to take the time to find out which.

“Shut up,” he growls before another card hits him, skids off his cheek and brings his focus lurching back around to Izaya. Izaya's leaning back, now, one arm braced behind him and the other toying with another card like it's a threat. He looks like he's swaying a little, though that might be Shizuo's perception that refuses to steady, but dizzy or not his eyes are open, his mouth quirked around the taunt he wears in place of a smile.

“I'm gonna punch you,” Shizuo declares, blinking hard and trying to shake the blur from his eyes. “Just. Right in the fucking face.”

“Promises, promises,” Izaya lilts. The third card ruffles through Shizuo's hair; Shizuo's not sure if the aim was intended or if it was an attempt at his eye wandered astray due to alcohol. “You owe me your shirt, Shizu-chan.”

“Fuck you,” Shizuo growls. “I don't owe you fucking  _anything_ , you cheating bastard.”

“I didn't expect you to be such a sore loser,” Izaya says. There's something under his tone, some odd resonance of danger, though when he looks up Izaya looks normal, at least as far as he can tell. But there's something hot that flickers down Shizuo's spine, a prickle of electricity that burns through him, and when he grins he can feel the expression tearing raw and wide at the corners of his mouth.

“Fuck you,  _Izaya_ ,” he hisses, rocking up onto his knees. It gets him the advantage of height as well as breadth but Izaya doesn't rise to meet him, just stares at him from his cross-legged position on the floor. His eyes are crimson, the color of blood and twice as hot, his mouth so sharp Shizuo imagines his skin will tear as if on broken glass if his fist connects. He forms it anyway, feels the weight of weeks of irritation settle heavy in his knuckles, and then he's pulling his arm back, winding up for a swing –

And there's a touch at his elbow, a hold closing with shocking strength at his arm. His skipping attention goes sideways, closes on Celty; she's leaning forward off the couch, pushing his arm back with one hand, and when she shakes her head it has the quick-sharp motion that leaves the  _no_  as clear as if she had snapped it aloud.

“Fuck,” Shizuo spits, and lets his hand fall.

“Aww,” Shinra whines as Celty offers Shizuo a smile, signs a quick  _thank you_  as she lets him go and retreats behind raised knees. “It was just about to get good!”

Celty swings her hand at him, smacking against his shoulder loud enough that Shizuo can hear the crack of impact, but he doesn't look up to see Celty's half-amused frown or Shinra's laugh of protest. He's fumbling through his buttons instead, the fastenings far more difficult than he remembers them ever being before; finally he gives up halfway through, tugs at the bottom hem to invert the half-open shirt over his head so he can ball it up and throw it at Izaya's laugh. It's too light to do any of the damage he wants it to – Izaya catches it out of midair easily, the action almost gracefully smooth, emerges from the curtain of the fabric with eyes dark and smile bright.

“Excellent,” he declares, unfolding one leg as if to show off the jeans he has managed to retain for the last several hands. “Another round, Shizu-chan?”

Shizuo knows he shouldn't. Celty's reaching for his shoulder to tap him back into rationality, the chill of the air against his bare shoulders and legs enough to remind him that he's very rapidly running out of things to bet. But Izaya is smirking a dare at him, and all Shizuo can see is red.

When Izaya flicks the first of Shizuo's next hand face-down over the floor, Shizuo catches it with a snarl.


	12. Bitter

“Wait.” Kadota’s voice rings heavy in the enclosed space of the coffee shop, burdened with the weight of disbelief at what he’s hearing. “And you  _agreed_  to play against him?”

“What  _else_  was I supposed to do?” Shizuo groans to the tabletop. His head is aching, finally putting protest to the uncounted drinks he downed the night before, beating pain against the inside of his skull to match the vague full-body ache he’s suffering to match. At least the low register of Kadota’s voice is easier to stand than Erika’s high chirp would be.

“Well,” Kadota says, and Shizuo can hear the laughter threatening the deadpan of the sound. “Refuse?”

There’s a huff of breath at Shizuo’s shoulder. He doesn’t look up to see what Celty is typing into her phone for Kadota’s benefit; he can imagine the judgment encapsulated on the bright screen himself, and it’s not like he has any real defense to offer.

“It’s not like I went over there with the intention of giving him blackmail material,” Shizuo growls, pushing up from the table as the sound of footsteps promise the cup of coffee he needs to achieve something closer to ordinary human function. “Something about him just makes me fucking  _crazy_.” There’s movement in his periphery, a blond high school kid approaching with a cup approximately as large as his head and filled with dark coffee; Shizuo sighs in anticipation of satisfaction, reaches out to take the weight out of deliberately steady hands.

“Thanks,” he says down into the dim reflection of his features in the liquid. There’s a mumble of response, maybe the shape of a nod, and then the messenger is gone to retreat back behind the front counter. The first sip of coffee is blisteringly hot, scorching all down Shizuo’s throat with a burn he can feel in his chest and so bitter it bites past the hangover-blur even vigorous toothbrushing couldn’t shake this morning. Shizuo groans in something that is near-pain at the intensity and mostly relief and takes another, longer swallow.

“I don’t know what’s going on with you two,” Kadota declares, slouching back farther in his seat. “You never get like this.”

“I know,” Shizuo says, the leading edge of raw irritation giving way to the soothing purr of caffeinated satisfaction across his tongue. He just feels tired, now, the ache of lingering intoxication settling into his joints and throbbing at the back of his head in spite of the aspirin he took upon waking. “I  _know_. It’s like he knows exactly which buttons to push to dig under my skin where I can’t fucking  _ignore_  him.”

 _Him too_ , Celty offers, the twist of her mouth something between amusement and sympathy with what Shizuo chooses to believe is an emphasis on the latter.  _Shinra says he’s obsessed with you_.

“I don’t  _want_  him to be obsessed with me,” Shizuo growls. Kadota looks completely unfazed by this statement; a strong argument in favor of Celty giving a surplus of information in the text message Shizuo didn’t see. “I want to  _never see him again_.”

“You didn’t  _have_  to go to his apartment,” Kadota points out with what would be irritating calm in anyone other than him.

“Shinra made me,” Shizuo says, aware even as he says it of how childish he sounds. He takes another overlarge swallow of his coffee to avoid seeing the way Celty ducks her head to hide a laugh behind the fall of her hair. Kadota’s grinning too, a flash of white teeth more at Shizuo’s expense than he would like, but even through the haze of hungover irritation in his thoughts he can’t convince himself it’s wholly unjustified.

By the time he’s paused between infusions of coffee to catch his breath, Celty has collected herself, is watching him with eyes soft with understanding and a mouth tight on almost-hurt.

 _Can’t you just get along?_  she asks, and Shizuo can see the plea in her eyes, in the slow shift of her fingers through the words.

He wants to offer comfort to his best friend, to take the higher road of maturity for his own sake. But when he thinks of peace only blood comes to mind, when he reaches for calm the memory of a vicious smile and teasing eyes surges adrenaline into his veins too strong to be ignored.

“ _Fuck_  no,” he snarls. “I’m  _never_  going to get along with that fucking asshole.”

Celty sighs, lets her hands drop, and Kadota leans back in to change the subject. Shizuo takes a breath of steam off his coffee, and tips back in his seat, and waits for the burn of adrenaline to fade from his veins.

His coffee is nearly gone by the time he’s calm again.


	13. Shards

Generally, Shizuo likes his job.

Bartending isn’t for everyone. He’s on his feet for the hours that make up his shift, and even if the bar is usually fairly quiet there are occasional concerts or the odd karaoke night that leave his ears ringing well into the next day. The late hours keep him from taking any but afternoon classes at the university, and the uniform is hard to put on when he’s in a rush to arrive on time, but all in all he likes it. The bar has a pleasant ambiance, lit in tones of gold and dark brown and with wood paneling that helps absorb the cacophony of sound that occurs when all the available seats are full. Shizuo likes the rhythm of mixing drinks, the way the process has become second-nature after months of experience until he can make a cocktail without looking, while even carrying on friendly conversation as he moves. The owner of the bar, a quiet man by the name of Tom, pays him regularly and doesn’t mind his occasional late arrivals. And Shizuo likes the people, the stories the old men tell and the shine of excitement that sparkles off the occasional clusters of girls out for a drink before they go dancing at some of the other, flashier bars. Shizuo likes being at work, and he likes working, and if he doesn’t exactly look forward to his shifts he never minds them once he’s there.

Tonight he is feeling particularly positive. Celty is out with Shinra for the evening -- a more common occurrence now than not, unless Shinra comes over himself to marathon old black-and-white sci-fi movies and eat the microwave popcorn he invariably manages to burn. Their absence means the apartment is uncannily quiet, and after a few hours of solitude Shizuo is more than ready to immerse himself in the casual conversation offered by work, polite small talk with new customers and the easy chat of acquaintances with the regulars.

Everything goes smoothly for the first hour. There’s a slow but steady trickle of customers: Simon from the sushi shop down the way in for his usual after-work drink, the woman in the lab coat who Shizuo knows by sight but who has never given her name or responded to overtures of friendliness. She just drinks red wine, usually several glasses in succession over the course of a few hours while she checks email on her phone; Shizuo know better than to try to make conversation with her at this point, just offers her her usual glass and retreats to take the orders from the few new arrivals. Simon leaves, offers a “See you, Shizuo,” in the booming voice that catches the attention of everyone in the room. The woman finishes her first glass of wine, starts on her second. Shizuo starts to clean glasses in the lull between customers, keeping an eye on the front door in case someone new comes in.

And someone does.

Shizuo sees the door start to open, the movement enough to catch his full attention. He’s ready to offer welcome, perhaps with a name if the new arrival is a familiar face. Then he sees the features -- familiar, yes, though not any he consciously expected -- and his hand tightens involuntarily against the wineglass in his hands.

“ _What_ ,” he growls, rage licking up his spine and burning out into his fingertips. He doesn’t hear the glass shatter under his too-strong grip, doesn’t feel the broken edges tear blood across his skin; all he can do is stare at Izaya’s smirking face and taste hate on his tongue. “Get  _out_.”

“Shizu-chan,” Izaya slurs at him, dragging the consonants into a tangle before he bites them off over his tongue. “I didn’t know  _you_  worked here.”

“Like hell you didn’t.” Shizuo steps forward without thinking, his hand curling itself into a fist over the slow seep of blood across his palm. “What the fuck do you  _want_ ,  _Izaya_?”

Izaya’s head tilts to the side, his mouth turning soft around a pout that fails to even hint at sincerity. “Are you new to this job or something?” he asks, reaching out to press a hand against the edge of the bar to steady himself while he settles himself on the stool. When he leans in he’s close enough that Shizuo can see the red of his eyes even in the dim lighting. “I want a  _drink_ , Shizu-chan, what do people usually want at a bar?”

“You’re stalking me,” Shizuo intones. His hand aches, his fingers slip against the sticky heat of his bleeding cuts. “You’re fucking  _stalking_  me, why won’t you  _leave me alone_?”

“Why won’t you serve me a drink?” Izaya purrs. He’s smiling again. Shizuo flexes his fingers, thinks about crushing his palm against the other’s mouth to tear the edge of his smirk open against the bite of broken glass. “That is your  _job_ , isn’t it?”

“I’m going to break a fucking bottle over your head,” Shizuo growls. Izaya’s holding his gaze, his smirk unflinching even though Shizuo is well inside his personal space by now, is spitting words like punches. “I swear to  _fucking God_ , Izaya, I’ll--”

“Shizuo,” a voice comes from behind him.

Shizuo twists sharp, pivoting away from Izaya as his fury lashes out sideways at this new possible object. “What the  _fuck_  do you--” Then he sees Tom, his gaze level and expression blank, and swallows back the words half-formed to join the twist of aborted rage in his stomach.

“Broke a glass?” Tom asks, as calm as if he hadn’t just come out to find Shizuo within seconds of strangling a customer over the bar counter.

Shizuo looks down. The wine glass he had been holding is in pieces on the floor, the stem mostly intact but the glass itself shattered into arcs of shining crystal. When he looks at his hand there’s a shard caught in his palm, his skin stained crimson with blood from the cuts it’s inflicted; his thumb is worse, a deep slice across the base that spills fresh droplets even as he looks.

“Yeah,” Shizuo says, looking down at his hand instead of looking up at Tom’s gentle acceptance or Izaya’s infuriating existence. “Guess so.”

“I’ll take care of the glass and the bar for a minute,” Tom says, stepping past Shizuo to toe a shard of glass towards the others. “Go and wrap your hand up.”

Shizuo ducks his head in obedience, swallows back the lingering flame of his fury and starts to move towards the back room. Shizuo can’t hear what Tom says -- it’s too low for him to catch the details needed to make words out of just sound -- but he can hear the response, called deliberately loud after him.

“No thanks,” Izaya says. “I’ll wait for Shizu-chan to get back.”

Shizuo can feel the glass cut against his fingers when his hand curls itself into a fist.


	14. Absence

“We could have the party at our apartment,” Shizuo suggests.

It’s a futile attempt. He knows it is even before Celty twists to fix him with a stare the more intimidating for how unusual it is, shakes her head in a gesture that needs no translation at all.

“Hm,” Shinra hums, as if sincerely considering the possibility. “Didn’t you break a window last time?”

“That’s because  _Izaya_  was there.” Shizuo doesn’t even have to think about twisting the name into a curse on his tongue; at this point the syllables carry a vicious bite even in the space of his own head. “If it’s at our place you can just come on your own.”

Shinra’s laugh is too loud and too sincere, even in the much-louder setting than Shizuo’s workplace; Shizuo can see other patrons looking over their shoulders to sideeye their cluster of three, can imagine the hiss of whispers that are lost to the overloud music.

“I can’t not invite my roommate, Shizuo,” he says after he’s composed himself, shaking his head like it’s a ridiculous premise. “He gets mopey if he’s left out of things.”

“Maybe he shouldn’t make such a  _pest_  of himself,” Shizuo growls. “He’d find himself more welcome.”

Shinra waves a hand like he’s brushing away Izaya’s flaws into smoke in the air, leans in to take a sip of the neon-blue drink he decided to order. Shizuo can’t imagine it tastes like anything other than artificial sour and too-much sugar, but Shinra doesn’t appear to mind the flavor or the way the dye is staining the edge of his lips dark.

“He might not even be there,” he says as he leans back in his chair again. “I haven’t seen him for days now.”

“What?” Shizuo had been reaching out for his glass; now he stalls the motion, his hand stilling against icy condensation as his attention zeros in on Shinra’s face. “What do you mean, don’t you  _live_  together? Has he been studying for finals or something?” It seems an absurd idea, even with the hours of attention Shizuo has poured into textbooks over the last few days and the complete, inexplicable absence of even passing interaction with Shinra’s roommate. The idea of Izaya doing something as mundane and normal as  _studying_  doesn’t make any more sense than the idea of him sleeping or having a family does.

“Probably not,” Shinra admits readily. “He just disappears sometimes, leaves and doesn’t show back up for a day or a week or a month. Last time it was almost all of August I was on my own.”

“What?” Shizuo leans back from the table, forehead creasing into confusion. “Where the fuck did he go?”

“I don’t know,” Shinra shrugs. “I didn’t think to ask.”

 _What?_  Celty signs, her eyes dark with mild concern.

“ _What_?” Shizuo echoes. “Your roommate vanished for a  _month_  and you didn’t ask where he had  _been_?”

Shinra laughs again. “Of course not. Izaya’s always doing something on his own, but it’s impossible to keep up with it. He can take care of himself.”

Celty has to reach out to touch Shizuo’s shoulder and bring his attention back to her. She raises an eyebrow, lifts her hands up so he can see her movements clearly past the edge of her glass.

 _We are_ not  _having the party at our place_.

“Fine,” Shizuo groans. “We’ll have it at your place.”

It’s almost worth it for the way Shinra’s face lights up. He looks more like a kid on his birthday than a med student well on his way through college; it makes Shizuo smile in spite of himself, and then he sees the way Celty’s looking at Shinra -- eyes soft, lips curling into a smile too tender to be conscious -- and whatever bitterness he has about yet another inevitable run-in with Izaya fades off to insignificance in the face of sympathetic happiness.

“Maybe you’re right,” Shizuo allows, reaching for as much optimism as he can muster with the help of the rest of his drink. “Maybe Izaya will decide to take a trip to Russia or something and stay out of my life.”

It’s probably too much to hope for, but at least it offers some comfort until Shizuo is actually confronted with evidence to the contrary.


	15. Bite

Shizuo is drunk by the time Izaya arrives.

He knew their meeting was inevitable, arrived with his resignation settled under his skin and ready to be sufficiently inebriated that he doesn’t care as much by the time the interaction comes. It was a good start to have Izaya absent at the start, better when he failed to appear for hours after, until by the time Shizuo is fumbling his way down the hall to the kitchen in vague search of water he’s too hazy with alcohol to pick out a single familiar voice from amidst a dozen overlapping tones. He’s doing a good job of staying on his feet, he thinks, even if he nearly runs into Shinra as he rounds the corner into the kitchen and has to stumble sideways against the wall to avoid a collision. Shinra just laughs, vague and flushed with the high color of intoxication staining his cheeks, pats Shizuo’s arm heavily by means of reassurance and continues on down the hall to where Shizuo knows Celty is waiting in the living room. Shizuo takes a moment to recover himself, steadies his balance and reminds himself of what he’s doing before he continues into the bright-light glow of the kitchen.

The overhead lighting is bright in the enclosed space. It catches off dozens of glass bottles, fracturing into pinpoints of color that would dance and haze Shizuo’s vision if he were looking at them. But no sooner has he stepped through the entry then his gaze lands on grey-faded black, clothes far more familiar than he has ever wanted them to be, and his shaky footsteps stall him in place.

“ _Fuck_ ,” he says from the doorway. He doesn’t intend the sound to carry -- the curse is on his own behalf, an impulsive spill of noise to reflect his own knee-jerk horror. But he misjudges his volume, or maybe it’s just that it’s far quieter in here than in the other room, because Izaya twists away from the counter to see at him almost before he’s spoken. For a moment they’re both still, Shizuo trying to keep his balance as the world sways gently around him and Izaya just standing there, the bottle of clear liquid in his hand scattering light like a crystal and throwing the black of his shirt and jeans into sharper relief with the party-bright colors around him.

Then a slash of a smile, the cut of a laugh, and “ _Shizu-chan_ ,” lilted and twisted into something syrup-heavy and poisonous.

“Fuck you,” Shizuo says automatically. “Why are you  _here_?”

Izaya leans back against the counter, raises a dark eyebrow. He looks thinner than Shizuo remembers, the neckline of his shirt stretched wide to bare the razor edge of collarbones pressed tight to pale skin and the angle of his wrist sharp and fragile where he’s balancing the weight of the bottle in his hand. The bite of his eyes is just as Shizuo remembered, though, the dig of his smile just as maddeningly pointed as ever.

“I’m making a drink.” He swings his arm out, fast enough that even across the room Shizuo flinches in instinctive response. It just gets him another laugh, Izaya turning his back to rummage through the mess of half-empty cups and bottles in front of him. “Want one?”

“I’ve been drinking already,” Shizuo says. He steps farther into the room, a futile attempt to overwrite that brief reflexive cringe; it helps to be closer, if only to remind himself that he has the advantage of size if perhaps not of speed.

“I’ve noticed,” Izaya says without turning around. He’s emptying a cup into the sink, eying it critically before setting it on the counter next to a mismatched glass of similar size. “If you hadn’t I wouldn’t be suggesting we do shots, seeing as I value my life. You’re such a monster you need the head start.” There’s a twist of a cap, the swing of a bottle; Shizuo’s eyes catch the spill of clear liquid into the glasses, Izaya tipping his head like he’s judging quantity as he pours.

“I’m not fucking doing shots with you,” Shizuo says as Izaya twists the cap off a second bottle in a demonstration of more grip strength than he thought the other had. “What the fuck is that anyway?”

“It’s Sambuca,” Izaya says without turning around. “Aren’t you supposed to be a bartender, Shizu-chan?”

“Fuck off,” Shizuo snaps, stepping in to glare at the unfamiliar label on the bottle in Izaya’s hand. “Is that  _tequila_  you’re mixing it with?”

“Yep.” The bottle goes down; Shizuo reaches out for it as soon as Izaya’s hand is free, brings it closer so he can squint the blur of his vision into focus on the label. “It’s a drink recipe I got from a Russian friend of mine.”

Shizuo barks a laugh, amusement hitting him so suddenly it overrides the constant itchy irritation of Izaya’s presence. “You  _actually_  went to Russia to get some fucking weird alcohol?”

“ _What_?” Izaya does look back, then, mouth twisting into a smirk. “What the fuck are you talking about, Shizu-chan, I said my  _friend_  was Russian, not that I  _went_  to Russia. Sambuca’s Italian, anyway. You really  _are_  drunk.”

“I’m not drunk,” Shizuo lies, can taste the tang of it on his tongue. When he sniffs at the open bottle he flinches from the bite of it, recoils like he can undo his too-hasty inhale. “What the fuck, is this  _licorice_?”

“It’s anise liqueur,” Izaya says. He’s tipping one of the glasses sideways, now, tilting a bottle of Tabasco sauce against the edge.

“No way I’m drinking that,” Shizuo declares, setting the bottle down hard enough on the counter that it jars Izaya’s movements. “I fucking  _hate_  licorice. What are you  _doing_?”

“Making shots,” Izaya sighs. “Shut up, Shizu-chan.” He’s turning from the counter, both glasses in hand; he holds one out expectantly in the other’s direction. “Drink.”

Shizuo eyes the glass. There’s a stripe of red running down the middle, the Tabasco making a clear line between the alcohol. “I said I wasn’t going to.”

Izaya’s eyebrow goes up again, his chin dips his features into shadow. His eyes are bright against the dark. “Don’t think you can keep up with me?”

There’s a moment when Shizuo can see the mistake he’s about to make. It’s there in the bottles still open on the counter, clear in the red in the glass and behind Izaya’s eyes. It’s even drawn against the bones of the fingers offering the shot like liquid temptation, underlined by the taunting certainty at Izaya’s mouth.

Then he reaches out and takes the glass. It’s sticky on the outside, catches against his fingertips, but it doesn’t matter; Shizuo’s downing it all at once, without hesitating to give the tequila or the bitter of the licorice a chance to convince his nose that this is a bad idea. It burns going down, slices across his tongue and lingers at the back of his throat, but it leaves him hot, radiant under all his skin like he’s been warmed from the inside.

“Good,” Izaya says instead of asking, blinking hard as he swallows the last of his own shot. He’s sliding the glass free from Shizuo’s hold, the chill of his fingers brushing against Shizuo’s as he moves. “One more.”

“Fuck off,” Shizuo says. He feels like his tongue is on fire, like his words are flame itself. “I said I didn’t want it.”

“And you drank it anyway.” Izaya is splashing tequila into the glasses again, the liquid sloshing over the edge to spill across his fingertips. “I’m not about to do something stupid like take you at your word.” The Sambuca, next, the whisper of licorice in the air as the liquid slides against the edge of the glass; then the Tabasco, Shizuo can’t look away from the overbright red-orange of the sauce fitting itself between the layers of alcohol in the glass. Izaya gives them a moment to settle; then he’s turning, offering the second shot to Shizuo again.

Shizuo knows better, this time. He can still feel the burn on his tongue, the fire of alcohol along his throat promising more intoxication than he trusts himself with once it’s settled into his bloodstream. He takes a step back, pulls free of the scent of poison hanging in the air, shakes his head. “No way.”

Izaya stares at him for a moment. His shirt is catching the line of his outstretched arm, sliding down to bare his skin halfway to his elbow. Then he shrugs, a sharp motion of shoulders, tips his head sideways in a show of uncaring. “Fine.” The movement of his hand is almost elegant, a sweep through the air so fast Shizuo barely sees it before Izaya’s head is tilting back, his throat working as he swallows. There’s a moment of just that, dark hair sliding away from sharp features and crimson stare giving way to the movement of pale throat; then Izaya tips his head back down, sets Shizuo’s glass aside with an audible  _clink_ , and offers Shizuo a smirk that is a dare even before he speaks.

“If you’re too much of a coward, I’ll just drink yours for you.”

It’s a stupid insult. Shizuo knows that, rationally, the adult part of his brain scoffing at the inelegance of the tactic. But he’s drunk, so slurring-dizzy he can barely stand upright, and it’s Izaya, the taunting lilt of his voice ever enough to strip Shizuo down to childish hatred, and so he’s surging forward as Izaya lifts the glass, hissing something incoherent and threatening as Izaya grins at him over the edge of the shot. Shizuo’s reaching for the glass -- his fingers catch, slide, alcohol slops across his fingers and drips at Izaya’s shirt, but Izaya isn’t letting go, he’s pulling with startling strength and Shizuo loses his balance, has to throw a hand out to catch himself at the counter.

“Give it to me,” he hisses, trying to drag the glass towards himself and leaning to remove the distance to the edge of the cup.

“You didn’t want it,” Izaya says, his smile blinding bright this close up.

“ _Fuck you_ ,” Shizuo spits, pulls against the glass. His fingers slide, Izaya’s hold veers sideways in response; there’s the tang of licorice again, Izaya’s mouth open against the edge of the glass, and in a desperate burst of competitive force Shizuo shoves the shot sideways, and topples forward, and his mouth crushes against Izaya’s. For a heartbeat they’re still struggling for the cup, the wet dripping against their fingers saying the liquid is long since spilt anyway; then Izaya groans, something low and purring that goes right through Shizuo’s blood, and the force at the glass vanishes to be replaced by sticky fingers shoving at the back of Shizuo’s neck. Izaya’s hand grabs against his hair, and then he’s licking against Shizuo’s tongue, and the glass falls to shatter at the floor as Shizuo abandons that pursuit in favor of grabbing at a handful of Izaya’s shirt to pull him in closer.

He might be a little too aggressive with the counter, he realizes when Izaya hisses pain at being run up against it bodily. Payback comes in the form of teeth at Shizuo’s lip, sharp canines dragging blood in their wake, and Shizuo would growl irritation except that the rumble in his chest turns into a groan when Izaya arches off the edge of the counter to press so hard against him he nearly loses his balance. The dark shirt slides up under his hand, pale skin bruising around the shape of bone under his hold, and Izaya’s fingers are dragging at his hair like he’s trying to pull Shizuo off him except he has a leg around the other’s hip, is pressing against him so close his jeans might as well be painted on.

“Fuck,” Shizuo says, or tries to say before the expletive is lost to Izaya’s mouth. He tastes like alcohol, the bite and burn of the shots yet clinging to his tongue, and he feels like glass, delicate and crystalline and sharp-edged at all the points he’s fracturing under Shizuo’s too-hard touch. Shizuo can’t think, rationality has long-since dissolved under the joint pressures of too much alcohol and too much Izaya, but he doesn’t need thought for this, as it turns out, doesn’t need anything but instinct to shove Izaya back so Shizuo can grind against the inside of his thigh with the reflexive grace of intoxication. Everything is hot, everything is burning, Shizuo’s skin and Izaya’s mouth and the air itself, reality fraying away into impossible heat like they are forming the elements of an explosion between them.

When Shizuo licks down against Izaya’s neck, sucks a bruise into the skin so he can hear the way the other whines incoherent protest, he can taste licorice burning on his tongue.


	16. Regret

Shizuo’s mouth tastes bitter.

It’s a strangely specific detail, some inner monologue observes as he groans into his pillow in lieu of even thinking about sitting up. He’s unfortunately accustomed to the sticky dry-mouth feel of a hangover, but this is different; there’s a tang against the back of his tongue, a sharp edge to the feeling that makes it a specific  _taste_  rather than just general unpleasantness.

Sitting up doesn’t help. That just sends his head spinning, jolts the room so hard around him he considers vaguely if he isn’t still drunk. He can’t remember going to bed, doesn’t remember making it home; the vast majority of the night before is a blur, when he reaches for it, the last clear memory he has that of pouring a shot of some unidentified alcohol into a glass of soda and drinking it perhaps faster than was reasonable.

“Fuck,” he croaks, his voice dragged rough against the back of his throat. At least his hands are undamaged, lacking the bloody edges of torn skin that resulted the last time he had too much to drink. There is a bruise around his wrist and a purple shadow blooming along a knuckle as if it had gotten smashed against something, but he can’t remember any reason for those. It aches in a faintly interesting way, a bone-deep hurt that is at least a distraction from the dull pounding against the inside of his skull; Shizuo flexes his hand to push against the bruise, contemplates the marks at his wrist, the raw red of them like he managed to give himself rugburn around the whole span of his wrist.

He doesn’t startle when his phone rings. He’s not sure he has the energy to startle, right now, doesn’t think his body is capable of the effort. He groans instead, reaches out to fumble across the bedside table to retrieve his phone -- plugged in, remarkably enough, even if he only managed to get one shoe off before collapsing into bed -- and bring it to his ear while trying to remember if he’s missing a shift at work.

“Yeah?”

“Shizu-chan,” comes the purr, and Shizuo groans, shuts his eyes like that will help the immediate burst of pain in his head. “You sound terrible.”

“Shut the fuck up,” Shizuo offers, attempting some measure of his usual aggression. It falls short, slipping out against the ache all through his body when habit tells him to burst into adrenaline-fueled action. He remembers Izaya’s arrival last night, vaguely, in the form of a too-sharp laugh and the shine of fluorescent light off crystalline glass. “It’s your fault anyway.”

“ _My_  fault?” Izaya’s voice is tense, like he’s fighting back a laugh and only half-succeeding. “What could I possibly have done to  _you_ , Shizu-chan?”

“I don’t know,” Shizuo admits, leaning in farther over his knees and pressing his hand to his aching head. “It doesn’t matter. It’s  _always_  your fault.”

“Can’t you remember?” There’s a purr, now, taunting and weirdly resonant even over the static of the phone. Shizuo can feel the hum vibrate against his jaw and tense against his spine.

“Fuck you,” he says, just for good measure. “You gave me too much to drink, you fucking asshole.” His tongue is aching with the burn of the leftover taste, his lips aching from the heat of half-remembered shots. “I don’t even fucking  _like_  licorice.” It  _is_  licorice, he can taste it now, the bite of anise clinging to his tongue from the stupid liqueur Izaya produced and poured into a shot for him. It burned, Shizuo remembers, the two layers of alcohol and the spicy heat of the Tabasco sauce between them, the fire of it tracing a path down his throat as he swallowed. That had been the first shot, but he can remember Izaya pouring another, the twist of bone along his wrists as he splashed another, as he poured the liquid past his lips. The tang of licorice bitter on Izaya’s fingers, the salt-burn of sweat against the curve of his neck, the taste of blood off his lips --

Shizuo drops his phone.

He has no idea what Izaya’s saying, can’t collect himself enough to pick the receiver back up for what feels like an infinity of seconds. He remembers, now, in quick disjoint flashes without any coherency to link them together. Izaya arching off the counter, pressing flushed and gasping against him. Fingernails scraping against his scalp, dragging painfully hard at his hair. Izaya licking against the line of his jaw until Shizuo turned hissing irritation to catch the other’s mouth with his own again. Narrow fingers fumbling at his jeans, too clumsy-drunk to open zipper or button but enough friction to drag a groan out of Shizuo’s throat, enough for Izaya to pull in flush against him so Shizuo could feel the shape of him hard against the front of his jeans.

It’s in the midst of this realization, the ice-shower shock of the memory, that “ _Shizu-chan!_ ” sounds shrill from the dropped cell phone. Shizuo blinks, looks towards the static, and then he’s fumbling for the device even as his stomach drops, his heart plummeting with terror of the fallout that could be waiting for him.

“What the fuck?” he starts, leading with as much aggression as he can manage to cover the shudder of panic in his voice.

“Ah.” Calmer, that, Izaya dropping back into that teeth-grindingly irritating lilt he prefers. “I thought you hung up on me.”

“I should,” Shizuo bites off, his heart pounding overdrive in his chest.

“Don’t be mad, Shizu-chan,” Izaya says, dipping into a laugh at the end for no reason Shizuo can fathom. “It was a  _party_ , if you don’t remember what happened you did something right.”

“Why did you call me in the first place?” Shizuo demands, overfast and sounding faintly desperate on the words.

“I was hoping you had managed to die of alcohol poisoning sometime in the night,” Izaya purrs, sounding perfectly ordinarily psychotic. “Unfortunately I didn’t finish the job,  _again_. I promise, usually I’m far more efficient than this.”

“You make it sound like you  _have_  killed people before,” Shizuo growls.

“Ah,” Izaya says, laughs in a high breathless way that is the precise opposite of reassuring. “You’re a challenge, Shizu-chan. I’d be impressed if I didn’t hate you so much.” His voice drops, sheds the manic note laid over it, and in the next breath he sounds steady and level and absolutely serious. “I’ll be sure to take you down next time.”

There is a shiver that runs straight down Shizuo’s spine, cold adrenaline that freezes all the aches of his hangover into insignificance in the face of real and true danger. There is a knife edge under Izaya’s voice, a promise and a dare at the same time, and Shizuo isn’t sure what they’re talking about any more and doesn’t know that the certainty would have any change on his reaction.

“I’ll kill you if you try,” he says, the words burning hot on his tongue.

Izaya’s laugh cuts clean through the receiver, catches the forgotten ache at Shizuo’s temples into something sharp and spiking. “It’s a date, Shizu-chan,” he says.

The phone goes dead before Shizuo can decide how to take that.


	17. Toxic

Shizuo doesn’t know what he expected.

He’s been thinking about the party all week, in spite of the fact that he can barely recall the details and that those he can piece together are so hazy and disjoint they feel more like a dream than anything else. They come at the least opportune times -- when he’s in the middle of class, when he’s mixing a cocktail at work -- just rarely enough that he’s shocked out of focus every time he remembers and just frequently enough that he can’t manage to do much of anything else. It’s been something of a relief that Izaya has apparently returned to his complete silence with the conclusion of their phone call; Shizuo doesn’t see him anywhere, in class or at work or at the coffee shop. By the end of the week, he’s braced for Izaya to not even be at the party at all, for all his nervous adrenaline to fall flat and useless as soon as he walks in the front door of Shinra’s apartment to the other’s absence.

He’s not ready for what  _does_  happen, which is Izaya waiting for him by the front door with a mostly-full shot glass and a “Come on, Shizu-chan, you have to pay the toll before you can come in.” Shizuo doesn’t bother forming a retort -- it’s hard to remember how, when his heart is beating weirdly frantic in his chest at the shadow in Izaya’s eyes. He just takes the glass, swallows it fast even as Shinra is sliding past Izaya to catch Celty’s hand and lead her in with no pretense of requiring a drink first. Izaya doesn’t even glance at the movement; he’s staring at Shizuo instead, his mouth taut with the threat of a smile that he’s not setting free, for reasons unfathomable to Shizuo.

He takes the glass like it’s payment, curling his fingers against the damp edge as he takes the weight off Shizuo’s palm; then “Follow me” and he’s moving down the hallway, backing up without turning so he can hold Shizuo’s gaze. He’s remarkably quick about it; even when Shizuo hisses and comes forward as fast as he can Izaya outpaces him, makes it into the kitchen before he can catch him, before he can decide if he  _wants_  to catch him or not.

The second shot has a match, Shizuo finds, Izaya holding onto one of his own as he offers the glass to Shizuo without offering an explanation of what’s inside. Shizuo doesn’t protest this either; it’s not the smartest thing he’s ever done, he knows, but it’s a relief to go back to this again, the comfort of familiar interaction instead of the weighted heat in his half-formed memories.

“So,” Izaya says as he takes the empty glass from Shizuo’s fingertips to join his own. Shizuo can feel the alcohol burning along his throat, twisting sour with the promise of intoxication in his stomach. “How many more do you need?”

“What?” Izaya’s turning away again, reaching for a bottle to refill both their glasses; Shizuo frowns at his shoulders, feels the edge of his nervous uncertainty giving way to the comfortable burn of anger, anticipation of a fight on the horizon. “How many more do I need for  _what_?”

Izaya turns around. Shizuo doesn’t flinch back, though he feels probably he should; there’s something worrying in Izaya’s eyes, a flatline sincerity to his mouth Shizuo can’t remember ever seeing before. When he holds out the shot it’s with the sharp angles of a dare, the lift of a dark eyebrow to underline the taunt of the glass. Shizuo takes it, snatches the shot away so fast the liquid catches and splashes over the edge before he can bring it to his mouth and tilt his head back to swallow.

“How many more shots do you need before we go upstairs?” Izaya says just as Shizuo is starting to swallow.

Shizuo’s throat closes off. It’s to his credit, he feels, that he doesn’t inhale in the first shudder of surprise; it saves him from choking on the liquid in his mouth. Unfortunately the bite of the alcohol is harsh enough that keeping it in his mouth isn’t much more pleasant; by the time he’s coughed through the burn lingering on his tongue he’s flushed and breathless and Izaya’s grinning amused at him from the slouch he has at the counter.

“Don’t remember how to breathe?” he asks. “Maybe I’ll get lucky and you’ll choke to death one day without even needing my help.”

“What the fuck,” Shizuo manages, his voice raw and grating over his aching throat. “Why would I go  _anywhere_  with you.”

Izaya shrugs, his grin dragging wider as his shoulder catches at the fabric of his overlarge shirt. “The way we were going last time I thought we could do with some privacy.” His chin dips down, his eyes cutting through the shadows cast by his hair. “I’m not  _that_  into exhibitionism, pervert.”

Shizuo’s skin flickers cold, icy contrast to the heat of the alcohol flaring out into his blood. “You remembered.”

Izaya’s teeth flash, a sharp curve of white in what would be amusement on someone else; he lifts his shot glass to his mouth, tips it back and swallows all in one smooth movement. Shizuo can see the collarbone bared by the overlarge neckline of his shirt shift under his skin. When he tips his head down his mouth is wet; Shizuo doesn’t realize he’s staring until Izaya licks against the curve of his lower lip, a slow slide of tongue that burns through Shizuo worse than the alcohol.

“So did you,” he purrs, a teasing spill of sound across his tongue. Shizuo wants to bite the noise off his mouth, wants to lick the taste of alcohol off his tongue. Izaya leans back farther on the counter, slides down to brace himself against an elbow. His shirt slides sideways, nearly off his shoulder entirely; then he laughs, sharp and dangerous, and Shizuo’s attention skips back up to his face, to the dark flicker of eyelashes over crimson as he blinks.

“I’m impressed,” Izaya says, the tilt of his mouth making a mockery of the words. “With as much as you had in you you should have been on the floor instead of trying to fuck me through my clothes.”

“ _Fuck you_ ,” Shizuo hisses, steps in closer so Izaya has to tilt his head back to sustain eye contact. “You got me  _drunk_.”

Izaya’s eyelashes flicker, a slow blink to go with the pull of his smile. “Yes,” he says, and that’s teasing too, a dare as much as the pale skin is a taunt for Shizuo’s fingertips. “How much more do you need this time?”

“I’m going to fucking kill you,” Shizuo hisses, and reaches out to grab against Izaya’s shoulder. His fingers slide against bone, nails scraping over skin too pale to not show the mark, but Izaya makes no attempt to pull away as Shizuo half-expected him to. He’s laughing instead, the sound raw on almost-frantic mania, and then there are fingers against Shizuo’s neck and Shizuo is no longer sure which of them is holding to the other. He’s tipping forward, his free hand coming out to brace flat against the counter, but then before he can catch his balance Izaya’s mouth is against his, Izaya’s licking against his lips as Shizuo gasps a shocked lungful of air. The fingers against his collar are digging into his hair, Izaya’s arching up towards him again, but he’s pulling too, he realizes distantly, abandoning the stability of balance in favor of grabbing at Izaya’s hip to drag him in closer. It’s clearer, this time, less hazy-hot with preemptive intoxication, but Shizuo can feel his skin starting to go hot, his breathing coming faster from the shots or the slide of Izaya’s mouth, he doesn’t know which. He’s not sure what he’s reaching for, shirt or hair or skin, and every time he gets ahold of something Izaya’s sliding sideways and out of his grasp until it’s all Shizuo can do just to track where his mouth is.

“Stop  _moving_ ,” he growls, fumbling his fingers into one of the belt loops on Izaya’s jeans. “I can’t fucking keep up with you.” There’s a laugh, cutting the heat in his blood into irritation, and then Izaya’s gone, tugging himself free like Shizuo’s hold doesn’t exist and taking himself and the burn of his skin towards the door.

“ _Izaya_ ,” Shizuo growls, the sound rumbling itself into resonance with the heat trembling under his skin as he stumbles to follow. “Get the  _fuck_  back here.”

Izaya pauses in the doorway, reaching to tug the neckline of his shirt back into some semblance of order. It’s some small comfort that his cheeks are flushed, that his mouth is open on the heat of his breathing instead of sharp on a smile.

“You never listen to me, Shizu-chan,” he says, taking another step back when Shizuo gets close enough to lunge for a hold at his shirt. “I’m not into exhibitionism.” There’s a flash of teeth, Izaya’s smirk knocked out-of-focus by the pant of his breathing, and then he’s gone, twisting around the corner before Shizuo can make another grab at him,

Shizuo doesn’t think about whether it’s an invitation. He doesn’t decide to follow as much as he just  _does_ , his whole body humming with heat and frustration too all-encompassing for him to figure out what it is he’s frustrated  _about_. His head is spinning, his body crackling with heat; he takes the stairs two at a time, the movement made desperate and electric before he misses his footing at the top and has to stumble forward before he can catch himself.

It’s dark upstairs, the lights off in expectation of the party below; Shizuo is rendered momentarily blind by the shift in illumination, his vision struggling to catch up around the haze of adrenaline rushing through his blood. Then a hand closes on his wrist, fingers pressing painful-tight against his skin, and he has a sudden epiphany about the cause of the bruise left from last week.

“Come on,” Izaya says in an undertone that sounds more like a purr than a whisper. He jerks hard enough that Shizuo stumbles again trying to keep up with the motion, and then they’re moving, Izaya pulling him around a corner and through a doorway Shizuo can only start to see when Izaya slams the door shut behind them.

“Fuck,” Shizuo says again, reaching out through the dim grey to fumble at Izaya’s hip again. There’s a sharp edge of bone, an angular hip fitting against his hand, and then he pulls and Izaya’s right there, his smile so flashing bright Shizuo can see it clear in the moment before Izaya’s mouth is against his again. There are teeth at his lip, pulling past the point of pleasure and into an ache of hurt, but Shizuo doesn’t pull away, he’s leaning in so hard Izaya’s stumbling backwards over the floor in response. They’re both moving, balance wavering somewhere between their feet, and then Izaya’s foot shoves at Shizuo’s ankle and Shizuo stumbles, falls, lands heavily against Izaya. There’s an elbow against his ribs, a knee shoved against his stomach, and in the first breathless shock of the fall Izaya shoves to push him over and off.

“You’re heavier than you look,” he says, his voice the only clear thing in the room. He sounds winded, like he’s fighting for breath, and he’s moving, Shizuo can see the silhouette of his movement as he stretches to reach for something.

“You tripped me,” Shizuo growls, reaches out to make a fist of Izaya’s shirt. When he shoves Izaya falls, toppling sideways with a breathless-hard exhale, and Shizuo realizes that they’re on a bed, the soft of the mattress stealing the force of impact from their movements.

“So rough, Shizu-chan,” Izaya observes. He has something in his hand, is reaching for the front of his jeans; Shizuo can see the angle of pale fingers pushing the button free, dragging the zipper down. Shizuo feels hazy, overheated, the weight of his clothes too much for the radiance of his skin, and Izaya’s pushing his jeans off his hips to bare the pale of his legs to the not-quite-illumination bleeding past the blinds over the window. “Are you always like this in bed?”

“Fuck you.” Shizuo reaches for the tangle of Izaya’s jeans, grabs a fistful of dark fabric; Izaya laughs, kicks his feet free to leave Shizuo with just the weight of the denim in his hand. By the time he’s shoved it aside and over the edge of the bed Izaya’s wiggling free of his boxers, too, stripping to leave only the dark lines of his shirt to cover any part of his skin. Shizuo still can’t see very well -- it’s too dark in the room, with the blinds drawn over the window and the door shut -- but he’s reaching anyway, leaning in over Izaya so he can press his fingers against the other’s hip as Izaya purrs something incoherently teasing, slides his knee wide like he’s putting himself on display.

“Like what you see?” he asks. He’s doing something else with his hands, now -- there’s the click of a lid coming open, the shift of fingers -- but Shizuo’s distracted by shoving at the hem of Izaya’s shirt, rumpling the fabric up off his skin and ducking to lick against the thrum of reaction against his stomach. Izaya hisses reaction above him, arches up against the friction; his cock bumps against Shizuo’s shirt, the heat of the resistance proof of his interest, but Shizuo just tips his head to fit his mouth flush to Izaya’s stomach, to suck the salt-bitter of sweat off his skin.

“There are better places for your mouth,” Izaya suggests. He shifts, moves like he’s maybe trying to pull away, and Shizuo growls, reaches out to grab against his hip to hold him down. It just gets him a laugh, tension along Izaya’s leg as he braces himself to angle a few inches off the bed, and Shizuo licks up higher, tracing against the fragile suggestion of ribs under Izaya’s skin as the other fits his hand around behind himself. Izaya burns against his tongue, the bite of salt running up against the heat of his body, far warmer than Shizuo ever thought the other would be; he’s breathing harder, too, half-muffled gasps of air Shizuo can only hear for how close he is, for how near his mouth is to the overfast shift of inhales in Izaya’s chest.

He doesn’t think about moving his hand. He’s not thinking about a lot of anything, anymore; his mind is swimming, his thoughts dragging and sticking until they blur into unintelligibility in his head. It’s the alcohol, he thinks, the shots burning their way out into his bloodstream, or maybe just the heat under his skin, the raw edge of want that is tightening his hands overtight on Izaya’s hips and urging him closer, nearer, telling him the air is going thin over the distance between Izaya’s skin and his lips. The reason doesn’t matter; he’s past the point of caring, past any hope of restraint he might chose to exercise, and what he’s doing is fumbling against the sharp line of Izaya’s hip, tracing the razor edge of bone down until he can close his fingers against the other’s cock, can jerk up over him in a rushed-hasty movement more instinctive than deliberate.

Izaya shudders against him, arches off the tangled sheets with a weird shattered noise that Shizuo thinks might be intended as a laugh and sounds like a moan instead. “ _Jesus_ ,” he says, his voice skidding higher than Shizuo has ever heard it, and Shizuo slides his thumb up, pushes against the flushed head of the other’s cock to slick the spill of precome over his skin. Izaya jerks at the motion, whines something harsh and shattered, and then he’s grabbing at Shizuo’s hair, bony fingers twisting into a fist and jerking until Shizuo hisses and pulls away just to relieve the pressure. He lets his hold on Izaya go, reaches to grab against the other’s wrist, but Izaya’s letting go anyway, pushing up onto an elbow and reaching for Shizuo’s jeans instead.

“Come on,” he says, the words hissing into something resembling a taunt in spite of the heat saturating them. “Or don’t you know what to do?”

“ _Fuck_ ,” Shizuo growls. “Fuck you.” He reaches for his fly but Izaya’s already got it open, is insinuating his hands between Shizuo’s clothes and his skin. His fingers are cool against Shizuo’s cock, dragging sensation up against the skin that sparks blinding light through Shizuo’s thoughts, and while he’s still groaning through the first shudder of reaction Izaya’s shoving his jeans half-off, is curling his fingers against the base of Shizuo’s cock.

“Quiet, Shizu-chan,” he says, leaning in so close the words purr over Shizuo’s mouth. Shizuo groans, leans in closer in an attempt at a kiss, but Izaya just arches back to fit his legs around Shizuo’s hips, flashes his teeth in a flicker of white in the dim. “Don’t want anyone to know you’re fucking me up here, do you?”

“I hate you,” Shizuo hisses, snaps his hips forward against Izaya’s bracing hold. There’s a moment of resistance, friction made slick with lube; then Izaya makes a strange sound, a groan far back in his throat, and Shizuo slides into him, pushes forward into the tight heat of his body. It’s almost too much -- the motion is slick with lube but Izaya’s tighter than Shizuo was vaguely expecting, the pressure enough to white out Shizuo’s vision for a breathless moment of response. Izaya’s fingers are hard against Shizuo’s hip, nails digging in deep against the skin, and Shizuo can see the dark of his eyelashes, his eyes shut like he’s trying to focus on the sensation.

“Fuck,” Shizuo says, and thrusts forward the rest of the way, hard enough to push Izaya back against the bed. Izaya hisses, drags at Shizuo’s hip like he’s urging him closer and Shizuo leans in, hunches his shoulders and lets his head drop against Izaya’s shoulder as he fucks into him again. Izaya tips back and Shizuo goes with him, braces an arm against the mattress and starts to move in earnest, sharp heavy thrusts that drag breathless moans from Izaya with every motion. Shizuo’s head is spinning, his attention fracturing apart; his mouth is against dark hair, his breathing weighted with the smell of Izaya’s skin, and even the fingers at his hip are going distant, the slip of blood from Izaya’s fingernails unimportant in the face of the heat rippling over him.

“Fuck,” Izaya is saying, spitting the word into shadowed heat between the rhythm of Shizuo’s movements. “Shizu-chan, are you always this selfish?”

“Shut up,” Shizuo growls, shoves in against Izaya’s hair so he can pant against his ear. Izaya’s head tips, the line of his throat coming visible in the dim light, and Shizuo ducks to set his mouth against it, to lick over the flutter of Izaya’s pulse as he lets the other’s hip go so he can fumble for his cock again. Izaya shudders at the contact, arches off the bed as soon as Shizuo drags up over him, and whatever rhythm Shizuo was finding disintegrates. His hips still, his attention centering in on the drag of fingers over fire-hot skin, and Izaya is digging nails into his skin and hissing something so low and rough it takes Shizuo a moment to process the words as “Keep  _fucking_  me” with enough heat under them that the insult doesn’t need to be spoken to come through.

Shizuo does. It’s not graceful -- the world is starting to spin at the edges, his peripheral vision blurring with the intoxication of the alcohol sinking into him and the overhot distraction of Izaya arching under him -- but it’s effective, if the sounds Izaya is making are any indication. He’s gasping every inhale, sounding like he’s fighting the tension in his chest for the ability to breathe, and Shizuo is moving faster, tightening his grip and speeding the stroke of his hand until Izaya gets a leg around his hip and starts rocking up to match the slide of his fingers. “You’re too rough,” Izaya’s saying, the words painfully loud against Shizuo’s ear, and “Shut the fuck up,” Shizuo snaps back, presses his thumb in against the head of Izaya’s cock so the other tenses under him, like the line of his back is curving in sole response to Shizuo’s touch. There’s electricity sparking up Shizuo’s spine, settling in against the back of his skull to blur over his attention until all he can think about is the way every inhale burns in his throat, the way his heart is pounding in his chest like he’s sprinting. He can’t see, he can’t think, his ears are ringing with the sound of Izaya’s breathing and his arm is cramping from moving too fast and everything is slick and loud and overheated and he doesn’t stop, he  _can’t_  stop, even when Izaya draws taut under him, arching up more sharply than Shizuo knew anyone could.

“Fuck,” Shizuo groans, anticipation slurring into sound on his tongue. “Izaya, don’t--”

Izaya groans, a low note weighted with all the tension in his spine, collapses boneless to the mattress as he starts to come across Shizuo’s fingers. He’s panting, now, shuddering through orgasm with these weird stuttering inhales like the heat is overtaking even his breathing. Shizuo doesn’t let his hold go, even with fingers gone sticky and wet; it’s too much trouble to brace himself, more than he needs with Izaya shivering under him like he’s gone helpless under the burden of pleasure. When Shizuo leans in closer he can feel the motion of Izaya’s breathing pressing against his chest, the heat at the inside of his thigh catching at his hip, and then he’s coming, before he’s quite ready to, before he’s shut his mouth on the rumble of satisfaction that spills up from his chest. He muffles it against Izaya’s shoulder but stifling the sound isn’t enough to hide the tremor that runs through him, knocks him heavy and just as defenseless as Izaya while heat unwinds itself into his blood.

Izaya doesn’t give him a chance to catch his breath. There’s a hand shoving at Shizuo’s shoulder before he’s coherent again, pushing him away from the flushed heat of Izaya’s body before the warmth becomes too much for comfort. He growls protest, pushes to sit up on the bed -- and the world tilts sideways, veers dizzily around him so he has to clutch at the blankets to stay upright.

“Fuck,” he says, speaking before he can think. “The shots were a bad idea.”

Izaya’s laugh is harsh, sharp enough to draw blood; Shizuo turns his head, tries to force himself into focus on the other’s movements. It’s hard; they’re too fast to track easily, the lighting too poor to give him more than an impression of dark jeans, pale skin, Izaya dragging his clothes back on while Shizuo tries to will his vision to clear.

“Your pillow talk leaves something to be desired, Shizu-chan,” he observes as he gets to his feet with a fluidity that makes Shizuo’s head spin. “You should really work on that.” He makes it sound like advice, condescending and sugary-sweet; it sets Shizuo’s teeth on edge, brings him lurching forward in an attempt to connect the weight of his fist with the brittle edges of Izaya’s ribs. Izaya sidesteps, faster than Shizuo can follow, and Shizuo loses his balance, falls off the bed and only barely manages to catch himself from faceplanting with the floor by getting his hand out under him.

“You really are drunk.” There’s a impact at Shizuo’s waist, the weight of a foot connecting hard enough that Shizuo loses his breath in an involuntary groan of sound; he rolls onto his side, grabs for an ankle, but Izaya’s at the door, pulling it open and retreating into the somewhat brighter glow of the hallway. The light makes Shizuo cringe, drops Izaya’s features out of visibility and into shadowy outlines; all he can see is a flash of white, teeth catching the light for a moment, and then a laugh, bright and sparkling and laced with poison.

“Don’t pass out in my bed,” Izaya says, stepping around the edge of the door and starting to push it shut. “I don’t let animals on my furniture.”

“Fuck you,” Shizuo starts, tries to push himself upright, but the world veers again, the door shuts, and the intricacies of finding his way upright and back down the stairs to rejoin the party seem insurmountable. His head is pounding, the weight of three shots in a row more than he could avoid for long, and it seems easiest to just fall back to the floor, press his forehead to the cool of the wood and shut his eyes to the spin of the room while he waits for the intoxication in his blood to ease.


	18. Rueful

Shizuo wakes up on the floor.

This is unfortunately not an enormously shocking fact. He has spent the night on various floors in the past, his own and those of party hosts, and if it has become far more rare over the last few years recent events have given him more experience than he wanted with it. The primary difference, this time, is that it’s a bedroom floor, rather than a living room, and that when he groans and pushes himself upright it turns out to be Izaya’s and not his own.

There’s no shock of memory, this time. Awareness sits in the back of his head just alongside the headache offering dull distraction to his thoughts; he can remember the scrape of Izaya’s fingernails against his skin, the breathless catch of brittle laughter against his mouth. There’s more, too -- the inhuman arch of Izaya’s spine, the alcohol-burn of his tongue, the overhot friction of his body against Shizuo’s -- but Shizuo ignores that for now. It’s far more important that he get out and home before someone finds him, before Izaya stirs into consciousness, before the weird haze of calm hanging over him clears and he tries to strangle the other as he sleeps.

At least his clothes are mostly intact. His jeans are still undone, his shirt wrinkled past any hope of presentability, but it’s easy to refasten his pants and drag his clothes down to at least cover his skin if nothing else. Izaya doesn’t move; Shizuo almost suspects him of feigning the motionless sleep he is demonstrating in pursuit of some complicated goal Shizuo has no interest in deconstructing into the shape of normal human thought. But he’s quiet, at least, and Shizuo’s headache offers an excellent argument in favor of keeping him that way, so when Shizuo pushes the door open he does so near-silently, eases the latch free of the frame so softly there’s not so much as a stutter in the even pace of Izaya’s breathing.

Celty’s in the living room, as it turns out, curled up on the couch with one hand angled over the edge to drag against Shinra’s shoulder where he’s fallen asleep tipped back at the edge of the cushions. Shizuo lets them sleep; it’s not much of a walk back to the apartment, anyway, and he lacks the mental clarity to formulate a reason for where exactly he spent the night if not at home.

He starts to think about it again on the way home. The sunlight is bright with that particularly offensive cheer best calculated to worsen a hangover headache, piercing through Shizuo’s best attempts to squint it into more tolerable levels; it’s just another irritation to match the memory of Izaya’s laugh and the taunt of insults in his throat. It would almost be better, Shizuo thinks, if it were just that, if he could be completely sure the heat in his veins was just anger and not a response to what came after, the details left mercilessly sharp and persistent in his mind. His tongue remembers the taste of Izaya’s skin, the slick-bitter of salt clinging to the line of his hip, his fingers remember the heat of Izaya’s cock slipping against his strokes. Everything is a jumble, heat and sound and salt, laughter and sharp-snapped commands and breathless groans and there’s no way he should be hard with the headache he has but, well.

“Fuck,” Shizuo says aloud, biting the word into force against the early-morning empty of the surroundings. “ _Fuck_.”

He makes straight for the shower once he’s in the blessed darkness of his apartment. The mess of his clothes ends up on the floor, the water running itself hot while he peels off the shirt clinging to the sweat-sticky of his skin and sheds the weight of his jeans. The water is a relief, warm and soothing in spite of the tension in his shoulders; for a moment Shizuo just ducks his head to the spray, lets the water soak through his hair and trickle against his shoulders while he breathes in the weight of the steam.

He only really intends it to be a few minutes. By the time his hair is wet through his skin is passably clean; his headache suggests painkillers and lying down, maybe finding another few hours of sleep in the comfort of his own bed. It would be better, Shizuo knows on some distant level, to shut the water off and go to bed, or at least to switch the tap over to cold for the minute it would take to chill the distracting heat free of its hold on his blood. Unfortunately the room is dark, and the water is soothing, and whatever willpower he may have once had is gone, lost or used up over the course of the last night, and what he does instead is sigh and reach out to brace his arm against the shower wall as he reaches for the aching heat of his cock.

Rationally, Shizuo is aware there should be some sort of horror in his mind, cringing distaste for what he’s done or at least who he’s done it with. He’s sure he’ll be able to muster that later, maybe, when he’s less tired, when his head aches less, when he’s less hard under his fingers. But with the damp of the water hanging in the air and the memories still sharp-edged clear in his mind all he can manage to do is press his forehead against his arm, shut his eyes to even the faint illumination seeping around the edges of the door, and indulge in the thrill of illicit recollection.

It feels unreal, when he thinks on it, some overly detailed dream that managed to leave him with bruises over his ribs and a bitten-raw ache at his lips instead of just the haze of almost-memory. But it’s too clear for a dream, the details razor-sharp when he reaches for them -- he can remember the strange broken sound of Izaya’s inhales dragging into pleasure, the way his eyelashes looked endless, dark, spills of ink against the cutting edge of his cheekbones. Izaya’s leg against his hip, the hissed demand to keep going, to not stop, the way Izaya felt trembling underneath him like he was trying to break himself apart. And there are other pieces, too, bleeding in from weeks long past -- the dip of Izaya’s collarbone laid bare by an unlucky hand of poker, the bite of his smile in the framework of a familiar classroom. His wrist angling to brace his chin, his fingers catching the sticky sides of a shotglass, the shift of his throat as he swallows; the memories come clear, no softer with the passage of time but brighter, sharper, glistening in Shizuo’s mind like they’ve gone crystalline with the the heat of Izaya’s touch. Shizuo’s gasping for lungfuls of steam-humid air, his shoulders tensing him closer against the wall, and Izaya’s everywhere, behind his shut eyes and echoed in the damp at his mouth and in the too-tight friction of his hand, like if he moves fast enough his fingers will go thinner, sharper, like maybe the heat of the air will become the burn of Izaya against him instead.

He comes all at once, knees shaking with the force of it as he groans wordless relief against the wall. For a moment it’s just heat, satisfaction rippling through him to wash away his memory of last night, to rinse clear the awareness that he just jerked off to the thought of Izaya; then he blinks, straightens his shoulders, and reality comes back with the splash of the water, the heat not enough to distract from the ache of want still settled at the base of his spine.

“Fuck,” Shizuo says, and reaches to shut off the tap.


	19. Drunk

It’s strange to see Izaya drunk from the perspective of sobriety.

Shizuo is familiar with the general experience of dealing with inebriation while sober himself. It’s something of an occupational hazard when his job entails getting paid to mix drinks for any customer sober enough to stay upright and make themselves understood. But there’s something singularly odd about watching Izaya’s shoulders slide into the angle of intoxication they’re been taking on all night, to be able to watch his expression go dreamy with alcohol while he struggles to keep his focus on Shizuo’s features. He’s not even offering insults anymore, or at least nothing on the order of what he started out the night with; then again, he made it through three more drinks than Shizuo expected before Tom told him to cut him off. Shizuo is almost, if not quite, willing to admit to being impressed by Izaya’s tolerance, if nothing else.

“You have to leave,” he says now, letting his voice drop into a growl untempered by the presence of anyone else. The bar’s been empty for almost ten minutes, even the ever-silent patron with her preference for wine long since gone home; the lights go closing-time bright even as Shizuo speaks, flooding the ambient glow of the space with overbright illumination. “We’re closing, Izaya.”

Izaya tips his head sideways from the counter he’s been slumped over with more or less stability for the last hour, offers Shizuo a grin with its edge visibly dampened by the way his eyes won’t focus on the other’s features.

“You’re just going to throw me out, Shizu-chan?” he asks, bracing his hand on the counter and pushing himself upright. He’s still leaning heavily on the support -- Shizuo can see him swaying faintly where he sits -- but his smile lingers, turns his eyes dark even as his words slur on his tongue. “Leave me to find my way home in my current state?”

“Serve you right,” Shizuo declares. “I told you to leave hours ago.”

“I could get  _mugged_ ,” Izaya says, bracing an elbow on the counter so he can steady the sway of his shoulders by resting his chin on his hand. Shizuo tries not to watch the way his fingers flex against his jaw, the way his forward lean lets the collar of his shirt sag open over his collarbones. “Aren’t you worried?”

“In your dreams,” Shizuo hisses, untying his apron and folding it with more aggression than is at all necessary. “Go and get yourself stabbed for all I care.”

“You’re so thoughtful, Shizu-chan,” Izaya says, his grin a little more lopsided than usual. “So willing to share your claim to hurting me.”

“ _You_ \--” Shizuo starts.

“Shizuo.”

It’s a clear voice, lacking Izaya’s slur of alcohol or teasing, and from over Shizuo’s shoulder. Shizuo doesn’t jump, but it’s a close thing; it’s an exercise in self-restraint to compose his expression enough that when he turns he can offer Tom a carefully blank expression. For his part, Tom looks not at all concerned to find Shizuo in the process of threatening bodily harm to a paying customer; he only adjusts his glasses and reaches out to take the folded apron from Shizuo’s hold.

“You can go home with your friend,” he says, moving towards the counter. “I’ll finish cleaning up here.”

“ _What_ ,” Shizuo says, loud enough to drown out Izaya’s purr of laughter from behind him. “We are  _not_ \--he is  _not_  my friend.”

Tom shrugs. “Either way. Go ahead and take off early, I’ve got this.”

“I can help--”

Tom waves a hand, cutting off Shizuo’s offer before it’s even fully formed. “It’s fine. Head home, it’s late. I’ll see you tomorrow.”

Shizuo hesitates, searching for any feasible excuse to stay, anything at all to let him linger after kicking Izaya out and save himself the company on the way back. But Tom is wiping down the countertop, now, and he can  _feel_  Izaya’s smirk against the back of his neck, and he can’t come up with any good reason that he’s willing to say aloud.

He growls instead, a last denial of “We are  _not_  friends,” and makes for the exit so quickly Izaya nearly falls in sliding off his stool to follow. The door opens to his shove, stays open unfortunately long enough for Izaya to make it out, and no sooner are they outside than Izaya is stumbling in against Shizuo, fingers seeking out a hold against his wrist as if that will be enough to keep the other still.

“You should take me home, Shizu-chan,” he’s purring, his touch branding fire against the cuff of Shizuo’s shirt. He’s too close, Shizuo can see the way dark hair is catching at pale skin and the white-flash of teeth in Izaya’s smile even with the late-night darkness of the street. A hand comes up, Izaya’s arm looping around Shizuo’s neck, and when Shizuo hisses and tries to stumble backwards Izaya lets himself be dragged too, the whole of his weight pulling at Shizuo’s shoulder for a moment.

“Get off me,” Shizuo growls, reaching out to shove Izaya off him. His hands hit hip, shoulder, fingers catching at skinny-sharp bones under hot skin, and when he pushes it’s not hard enough, it just braces his hands against Izaya’s loose shirt so he can feel the other shift under his hold. Shizuo’s skin is going hot, his shoulders tensing as if in anticipation of a blow, and then Izaya’s other hand comes up and he’s caught in the loop of the other’s arms, struck still by the shadows of Izaya’s eyes.

“Shizu-chan,” Izaya says, the sound carrying the bite of alcohol off his tongue. He slurs over the consonants, draws them long and messy over his throat. Shizuo watches the shift of his lips around the vowels, thinks about interrupting the sound with his teeth, biting until the vibration of his name is replaced with a whine of pain instead. “You can’t just abandon me like this.”

“Yes I can,” Shizuo says, but Izaya’s fingers are tugging his collar loose and his fingers are tightening into bruises at Izaya’s body. “Get the fuck off me.”

“You’re not pushing me away,” Izaya points out. When he arches his back he tips forward, his balance giving way to the intoxication in his blood to press him alcohol-hot against Shizuo’s chest. He feels like fire.

“Take me home, Shizu-chan,” he says, turning his head up so the words shiver against Shizuo’s jawline. “Don’t you want to fuck me again?”

“ _Fuck_ ,” Shizuo gasps. “ _No_.”

He can taste Izaya’s laugh against the corner of his mouth, is tipping in towards it in spite of himself. One of the hands at his neck comes free, slides down over his chest in one fast movement before Izaya’s fingers are pressing against the front of his slacks, shoving hard against the thin fabric to grind friction against the resistance of Shizuo’s cock.

“Liar,” Izaya purrs, and Shizuo turns his head to muffle his growl against Izaya’s mouth. He tastes like alcohol, the flavor of the too-expensive whiskey he was drinking clinging to his tongue, and then his teeth catch at Shizuo’s mouth and there’s a flash of pain, the tang of blood to wash out the lingering burn of alcohol.

“ _Ow_ ,” Shizuo snaps, pulling away to tongue against his torn lip. “Stop fucking  _biting_  me.”

“No,” Izaya croons, pulls himself up on his tiptoes via his hold at Shizuo’s neck to lick against the other’s mouth. He’s unsteady on his feet, leaning hard at the support Shizuo offers so all his sharp edges are catching painful through Shizuo’s shirt. Shizuo’s head is blurring with heat, like he’s catching Izaya’s intoxication from the slick-hot drag of his tongue, and then Izaya drags his shirt free of his slacks and he remembers where they are in a burst of chilling panic.

“ _Fuck_ ,” he says, “Izaya, we’re in  _public_.”

“I don’t care,” Izaya announces. His fingers tense at Shizuo’s skin, scrape hard enough against the other’s hip that Shizuo flinches and hisses at the pain.

“You’re drunk,” Shizuo tries as Izaya’s fingers at his neck drag his collar loose, as the heat of the other’s mouth runs up against his throat. There’s pressure, what would probably be pain in another setting -- Shizuo’s pretty sure there were teeth, there -- but all it feels like is heat turning his blood to reckless fire.

“ _You_  don’t care.” Izaya’s hand comes around Shizuo’s hip, pushes up against the dip of his spine, and Shizuo shudders, digs his fingers in against Izaya’s shoulder hard enough that it should be painful and just makes Izaya moan too-loud against him.

“Get off me,” Shizuo tries again, attempts a step forward. Izaya drags at him, giving Shizuo the care of his full weight for a minute; he only makes it a few stumbling steps before they’re toppling, landing against a closed-up storefront with such force Shizuo can feel the jolt all through his shoulder. When he grabs for a better hold at Izaya’s hip his fingers slide over loose fabric, press against bare skin, and Shizuo doesn’t intend to make the sound he makes but he does anyway, a groan of too much heat in him to bear in silence. Izaya laughs, and it’s too-loud and too-hot at his neck, and when Shizuo turns Izaya’s pulling him down, fingers fisting into his hair to hold him in place while Izaya turns his head up for the kiss. His mouth is hot, his tongue hotter, and when Shizuo shoves him against the wall their knees fit together, Izaya’s jeans catching against his slacks until they’re pressed close enough for the barrier of clothing to be all but useless.

“Fuck you,” Shizuo spits against Izaya’s hair when the other lets his mouth go in favor of sucking what is unquestionably a bruise against the edge of his collar. “Just.  _Fuck_  you, Izaya.”

“Wish you would,” Izaya snaps back, his words slurred on alcohol and muffled at Shizuo’s skin. He’s fumbling at the front of Shizuo’s slacks, now, his usually elegant movements made clumsy over the last few hours at the bar, and Shizuo knows he should stop him but he just keeps grinding forward against the pressure, every glancing motion enough to override the arguments made by rationality and sanity.

“Not here,” he finally manages, stumbles back and sideways by a step. He can’t imagine what he looks like -- his slacks are half-undone, his shirt rumpled loose from the drag of those sharp fingers -- but Izaya is worse, with the arc of his slouch against the wall reading seduction just as clearly as the nighttime shadows in his gaze. His eyes narrow, his grin fading into the irritation of a frown, and Shizuo reaches for his shoulder without thinking, closes his hand on a fistful of shirt and drags.

“Come here,” and they’re moving, a handful of steps composed of long strides for Shizuo and one stumbling almost-fall for Izaya. Izaya’s hissing some kind of protest, has his fingers braced tight at Shizuo’s wrist to hold his balance, but it hardly matters; he doesn’t weigh enough to be a burden, is easy to tow past the closed stores and around the corner into a cross-street too narrow to deserve the consideration of streetlights.

“Shizu-chan,” Izaya is purring when Shizuo turns back around, satisfied with the way the shadows of the almost-enclosed space grant sufficient privacy. “You really are a monster, do you treat all your partners so roughly?”

“Shut  _up_ ,  _Izaya_ ,” Shizuo snaps, shoving the other back against the wall of the alley. Izaya goes at once, move of a fall than anything else, and Shizuo moves in fast, before he can think of anything else to say. He misses Izaya’s mouth on the first try -- he’s moving too fast and it’s too dark to see -- but when he reaches for the other’s jeans he’s dead-on, has his thumb shoving the button free while his lips are still somewhere against Izaya’s cheekbone. Izaya laughs, a burst of air hot at Shizuo’s ear, and his hands are back, motion rushed and desperate while Shizuo gets his mouth pressed back against Izaya’s. His jeans come open, Shizuo shoves the fabric aside, and then he’s there, dragging his fingers up against the radiant heat of Izaya’s cock. The fingers at his own zipper stall, Izaya makes some incoherent sound against his mouth, and Shizuo grins victory, growls something that he intend as a laugh and comes out as purring satisfaction as he drags friction up over the other.

“Fuck you,” he manages as Izaya hisses, his hips coming up off the wall to thrust forward against Shizuo’s hold. “I really fucking hate you.”

Izaya’s laugh is slippery, skidding out on a choked-off inhale halfway through when Shizuo slides his thumb in hard against the head of his cock, but his fingers are digging in at the back of Shizuo’s neck, his other hand working rumpled slacks the rest of the way open. “Is this your idea of sweet talk, Shizu-chan?” Fingers slip in under Shizuo’s shirt, find their way under the waistband of the loosened pants; Shizuo hisses at the glancing contact of Izaya’s fingers on him, the pressure of friction barely-there before it slips away. “No wonder you haven’t found yourself a girlfriend.”

“Can’t you keep your mouth fucking shut?” Shizuo demands. He’s jerking up over Izaya fast, now, rough and frantic more than with any kind of a rhythm, and the hand at his neck is going tighter, Izaya dragging at him with more and more of his weight as he leans off the wall and in towards Shizuo’s hold. “This is what you  _want_ , isn’t it?”

“Shizu-chan,” Izaya says, the words slurring indistinguishable except for the toxic-sweet aftertaste they leave at Shizuo’s mouth. “There’s lube in my back pocket.”

It takes Shizuo a minute. He’s breathing too hard to process the full implication, between the ache of unresolved want low in his stomach and the hot glow of satisfaction at the way Izaya’s voice swerves in time with the motion of his hand. Then it sinks in, a new possibility opening itself up as Izaya’s fingers drag over him again, and he starts to laugh, sharp and so raw it’s absent almost any humor.

“You  _planned_  this,” he says, letting his hold go so fast Izaya whines at the loss, drags hard at Shizuo’s neck as if in punishment. “What the fuck is  _wrong_  with you?”

“I’m drunk,” Izaya says, with all the self-satisfied tone of a man who has established an alibi in advance. “What’s wrong with  _you_?”

“Shut up,” Shizuo says by way of a retort, fumbling against Izaya’s jeans to find the promised bottle. It’s hard to manage in the dark; the plastic is slippery to the touch, the obscured light from the main street as blinding as it is concealing. By the time Shizuo’s spilling liquid over his palm and fingers and shoving the bottle into his own pocket Izaya is hissing impatience, has a leg hooked around his and is tipping so far off the wall Shizuo’s fairly sure he’s doing the work to keep them both upright. It doesn’t matter; any exertion from the extra weight is lost to the sanity-stealing heat in his blood, any complaint he might form into coherency gone when Izaya braces his leg and tips himself forward, abandoning his fumbling contact with Shizuo’s cock in favor of pushing his jeans off his hips by a handful of inches.

“Hurry  _up_ ,” Izaya hisses against Shizuo’s shoulder, his teeth catching the threat of friction with the words. Shizuo doesn’t even have to push his knee up; he’s hitching it higher on his own, arching off the wall until all Shizuo has to do is reach around the tangle of his half-off jeans to get his fingers against the burn of Izaya’s skin. “Come  _on_ , Shizu-chan, don’t keep me wait _ing_.” His words swing up at the end, catching into a choked-off groan as Shizuo forces a slick finger inside him, and Shizuo has the brief insane thought that if this is what it takes to shut Izaya up maybe he should do it more. It’s only for a moment; then he’s pushing in deeper, Izaya’s head going back against the wall in a shudder of reaction, and Shizuo has the far greater consideration of the other’s throat to think about. He leans in closer, pins Izaya back to the wall by simple expedience of shoving in against him, and then his mouth is against the vibration of sound Izaya is giving in time with the movement of his hand and he’s groaning without thinking about it at all. When he angles his wrist he can feel Izaya shudder, trembling against the support of the wall like it’s the only thing keeping him upright, can feel the way skinny fingers catch and drag against his hair.

“Fuck,” Izaya pants, sounding like he’s on the verge of breathless laughter. “Didn’t anyone tell you you’re supposed to be gentle with this?”

“Shut up,” Shizuo says, draws back to push another finger inside Izaya. The bite of the other’s words cuts off into another arched-back shudder, his throat trembling under Shizuo’s mouth, and Shizuo grins satisfaction and sets his teeth against Izaya’s shoulder, bites just at the line of the other’s collarbone. That gets him another jolt of reaction, an involuntary response that tightens though Izaya’s shoulders and against Shizuo’s fingers, and when there’s a groan Shizuo’s not sure which of them is responsible.

“You’re going to leave a mark,” Izaya manages after a moment, when Shizuo is fighting for a rhythm to the motion of his hand instead of the vicious pressure he was giving before. The fingers in Shizuo’s hair scrape up, drag sensation out all across his scalp, and Izaya’s pulling against his shoulders again, hooking his other leg around Shizuo’s hip so the other really is supporting all his weight.

“I don’t care,” Shizuo says, the words spilling incoherent against Izaya’s shoulder, bites again an inch to the left to leave interlocking traceries of bruises. “Fuck you, Izaya, I don’t give a  _fuck_  what you end up looking like.”

There’s a laugh against his ear, liquid and gasping, and Shizuo pulls his fingers free, reaches for the loose front of his slacks without pulling away. It’s hard to shove the clothing down with Izaya’s legs caught around his hips, but the anxiety of desire lets him manage it, force the fabric aside enough that he can brace his cock and rock in closer to the heat of Izaya’s body. They’re both quiet for a moment, concentration and anticipation stalling even Izaya’s words into silence; then Shizuo’s pressing against Izaya, the head of his cock catching against the other’s entrance, and he thrusts up into him with all the impatient aggression in his blood. Izaya arches, coming up off the wall in a motion that seems as much involuntary as a desire to get closer, his throat working on a sound that is some strange combination of a whimper and a moan. Shizuo can’t make out the details of his features for the darkness, can barely find it in him to care with the heat surging out into his veins, but Izaya’s fingers at his hair are pulling him in closer and he’s going, reaching out to brace a hand against the wall while the other presses against Izaya’s back to hold him steady.

“I hate you,” Shizuo says again, the words coming hot against the open-mouthed gasps Izaya’s taking. “I really, really do.”

“Yeah?” Izaya manages, turns his head so his lips are catching at the corner of Shizuo’s mouth. He sounds strained, Shizuo can hear the tension in his throat; one of the hands at Shizuo’s hair lets go, slides down between them so Izaya can close his fingers over himself.

“Yeah,” Shizuo growls. He’s falling into a rhythm, now, a frantic pace that is uncoiling promise in a wave up his spine; his skin is tingling, whatever chill the nighttime air has long since lost to the sticky-hot radiance between them. Izaya’s panting for breath, the shadows of dark eyelashes fluttering shut as he works his hand over himself in a completely different pattern; Shizuo can feel the tremors of sensation running through him with every thrust of his hips. Izaya’s tensing, stroking faster in pursuit of his own satisfaction, but Shizuo’s starting to shake, he can feel the heat running out into his veins and taking him over, turning his movements into pure instinct with no conscious thought at all. Izaya gasps, little huffs of air that sound almost like laughter, his fingers dragging at Shizuo’s hair, and Shizuo shoves him back, pins Izaya between the wall and his shoulders, and when he comes it’s with a groan that tastes like victory on his tongue. Everything goes hot, waves of sensation rushing through Shizuo to lock him breathless and still where he’s braced, and Izaya sighs a satisfaction and spills sticky against Shizuo’s shirt while he’s still too languid to care.

“Fuck,” Shizuo says after he’s caught his breath, when Izaya’s hold on him is giving way to more of a boneless weight than a deliberate grip. Izaya laughs but even that is hazy, drifting into something weirdly soft instead of sharp-edged as it usually is; when Shizuo tries to disentangle himself Izaya ends up sliding down the wall, dropping to collapse against the ground while Shizuo attempts to reconcile his appearance into something that looks a little less obviously indecent for the walk home. It takes him a few minutes; by the time he looks back Izaya’s got his jeans back on, or at least over his hips, but he’s still curled against the ground rather than any kind of upright.

“Fuck,” Shizuo says again, his entire vocabulary apparently collapsing into that one word. Izaya barely moves when he drops to a knee alongside him, only manages a huff of shattered laughter when Shizuo grabs at his shoulder to drag him upright. “Come the fuck on, Izaya.”

“Shizu-chan,” Izaya says, tipping in to lean heavily at Shizuo’s supporting arm. “Are you going to carry me home?”

“Fuck off,” Shizuo snaps. He gets his arm around Izaya’s waist; at least the other is skinny enough that he can be dragged bodily to his feet without too much trouble. “I’m not going to fucking leave you here.”

Izaya laughs, fumbles until he has an arm up around Shizuo’s shoulders and can lean on the other as he gets his feet under him. He’s actively unsteady -- Shizuo can feel the stumble of his movements in the shifting weight at his shoulders as they take a step -- but they’re moving forward, at least, and Izaya doesn’t weigh enough that the walk home will be impossible.

“You’re cute when you’re worried, Shizu-chan,” Izaya says, the words muffled nearly into incoherence by the way he’s leaning at Shizuo’s shoulder.

“Fuck you, Izaya,” Shizuo says, the words bled dry of the aggression he had earlier. “I’m not worried.”

There’s another laugh, the fingers at Shizuo’s neck sliding up in a caress so brief Shizuo can pretend he didn’t feel it. “Yeah?”

“Yeah,” Shizuo says.


	20. Lying

“It’ll be fun,” Shinra pleads to Celty, his voice hitting a particular shrill range of excitement that can apparently only be produced when speaking of sunshine and beaches. “The sea, the sand, the sun! It’s a perfect date scenario.”

There’s a pause, so heavy with silence Shizuo can imagine Celty’s eyeroll before she starts typing at the keyboard of her phone. He doesn’t turn around; he can guess at Celty’s end of the conversation, can hear Shinra’s more clearly than he’s quite sure he wanted to, and besides his attention is held by the coffee grinder in his hands, the entire contraption more Celty’s forte than his own.

“ _Celty_ ,” Shinra protests. Celty must have finished her response. “That’s not the only reason.” A pause, another furious tap of keys; Shizuo does glance over, then, just in time to see Shinra lean forward over the edge of the table to peer intently at the screen Celty is holding out in his direction. “Of  _course_  I want to see you in a bikini. Is that an offer?” His eyes go bright and wide with excitement, his attention skidding up to Celty’s face. “If you’ll wear a bikini for me we can go anywhere you want!”

Shizuo is expecting the hiss of rejection from Celty, the way her hand comes out to shove Shinra back from the table by his face; he’s grinning when he looks back at the coffee, resumes his attempts to the sound of Shinra’s protests about “My glasses, Celty, I can’t see!”

“You’re going this weekend?” he asks without looking up, loud enough to be heard over the patter of beans against each other.

“Yep!” Shinra declares, still sounding faintly muffled against Celty’s palm. “It’ll be a romantic getaway, just the two of us!”

“Sounds like fun,” Shizuo offers, looking over to see Celty abandoning her push at Shinra’s face in favor of stealing his glasses altogether. “It’ll be nice to have the apartment to myself.”

Celty looks up from the glare she’s turning on Shinra, her eyes going wide with concern; Shizuo’s not surprised when she sets the glasses aside for Shinra’s retrieval so she can offer  _Do you want to come along?_

Shizuo shakes his head. “No way,” he insists, not for the first time. “Don’t you want some quality time alone together anyway?” The way Celty’s gaze slides to Shinra says  _yes_  even as her hands drop to her lap, the pleasure in Shinra’s expression telegraphing the same; it’s enough to make Shizuo smile and lean against the edge of the counter to appreciate the picture of romance in front of him.

It is at this point that Shinra volunteers “That’s what Izaya keeps saying too,” and all Shizuo’s calm contentment evaporates into tension. He can feel his expression going blank, self-defense against too much telltale reaction, and even then it’s a relief when Shinra doesn’t look at him right away.

“Oh?” Shizuo finally manages, sounding a little strained and awkward to his own ears. “Is he hanging around again?”

“He’s been at home all weekend,” Shinra volunteers. “Really chatty, too.” A chill goes down Shizuo’s spine --  _did he say anything?_ would  _he say anything?_  -- but Shinra is still talking. “He’s been in a great mood.”

“Oh,” Shizuo says, and turns around to stare unseeing at the counter while memory offers the catch of too-hot breathing, the slur of tipsy laughter, the taste of secondhand alcohol on his tongue. “Really.”

“Mmhm.” Shinra sounds chipper, sounds unsuspicious, but adrenaline is still shuddering along Shizuo’s spine, sticking his breathing into something unnaturally forced. It’s obvious, it must be, there’s no way he’s going to be able to explain this, but Shinra is still talking, still sounds perfectly normal. “Maybe he’ll even pester you less!”

Shizuo knocks the coffee grinder over.

There’s a rattle across the counter, the lid of the grinder toppling off to slide over the surface, unground coffee beans scattering over the tile counter and onto the floor as Shizuo makes a brief, futile effort to catch them. He’s going crimson, he knows, self-consciousness flooding color under his skin, and then Celty’s on her feet and urging him aside, collecting the pieces of the grinder to reassemble it while Shinra drops to a knee to start collecting the spilt beans, apparently by hand.

“You know, for someone who mixes drinks for a living, you’re not very good at this,” Shinra points out, half-laughing over the last few words.

“Coffee’s different,” Shizuo growls, but Celty’s looking at him, her brows knit together into concern that is far too justified for any comfort.

 _Are you okay?_  she asks, the motion of her hands over the top of Shinra’s head invisible to the other.

Shizuo blinks hard, shakes his head in a desperate attempt to clear whatever expression he’s wearing under his flush.

 _Yeah_ , he signs back.  _I’m fine_.


	21. Jealousy

Shizuo has made up his mind by the time he’s waving Celty and Shinra off for the weekend: he is definitely  _not_  going to be the one to call.

It’s a matter of pride, he tells himself as he locks the door behind him, tries and fails to resist the urge to check his cell phone for the fourth time since Shinra appeared to meet Celty a half hour ago. He  _hates_  Izaya, there’s no particular reason he should do anything at all this weekend except appreciate having the apartment to himself, take advantage of the empty space to marathon a television show or play music too loud for an entire day.  _He’s_  not the one who has made it his life’s goal to appear in every facet of Izaya’s life; if he can have a few days of peace and quiet, all the better. He checks the phone one more time --  _no new messages_ , it informs him calmly -- before tossing it onto the table to languish unattended while he goes to find something to do.

He’s tried a book -- five pages -- a movie -- seven minutes -- and is in the process of starting up a video game in hopes that that will give him something to soothe the nervous energy jittering through his body when he hears the phone ring and dives for it so fast he trips on the controller cord and drags the entire console off the shelf and onto the floor. There’s a crackle of static, the television going silent as the connector cables jerk free, but Shizuo doesn’t turn around to check them, is too busy shoving to his feet and scrambling to get his phone open and to his ear.

“Hello?” he says, too breathless and adrenaline-fueled to come up with anything less ordinary in the moment.

“And here I thought you’d want to take advantage of my empty apartment,” Izaya’s voice purrs at him, and all the knots in Shizuo’s chest undo themselves at once in the surge of fire in his veins.

“ _Fuck you_ ,” he growls, snaps the phone shut on the crackle of Izaya’s laugh, and makes for the door without turning off the lights behind him.

He doesn’t have time to think about what he’s doing on the way to Izaya’s apartment. It’s a short ride on Celty’s scooter and the delay of being on foot isn’t enough to take the edge off the anticipation in his blood. If anything it just makes him warmer, leaves all his skin flushed with the too-fast walk and the expectation of more, until when he shoves against the doorbell it’s with far more force than is necessary. He can hear the chime inside, the sound echoing hollowly on the other side of the door, braces his hand against the frame to wait for the answer. And waits. And waits. And  _waits_.

He rings the doorbell again, hissing irritation this time. Again the chime, again no indication of a shout of reply or the sound of approaching footsteps.

“ _Izaya_ ,” Shizuo growls, leaning in close against the door like it’s the receiver for a phone. He rings the doorbell again, harder, holds the button down like it will make the predetermined sound louder or linger longer. “Open the  _fucking_  door.” Again, twice in quick succession, hard enough that his finger aches with the impact. “You fucking  _called_  me.” He has a hand on the door, now, his palm braced against the wood as he tips in closer to the support like he’s thinking about just shoving through. “Stop fucking  _playing_  with--”

The door comes open in a rush. Shizuo stumbles forward at the motion, startled enough by the loss of the resistance that he nearly falls into Izaya standing in the entryway.

“What’s your problem?” Izaya asks, raising a dark eyebrow. “Don’t you have five minutes of self-control?”

“Fuck you,” Shizuo offers automatically, his eyes dropping to the pale line of Izaya’s bare shoulders. “Why aren’t you wearing a shirt?”

“I was in the  _shower_ ,” Izaya sighs, and Shizuo can see, now, that his hair is dark with wet, clinging against the line of his neck and damp against his forehead. “Did you run over here or something?”

Shizuo growls incoherent irritation, baring his teeth in what feels like half a scowl and half a feral grin. Izaya just laughs, his eyes going bright with mocking amusement, and when he steps aside with a condescending sweep of his arm in invitation Shizuo steps forward and into the familiar space made odd by the quiet of emptiness.

“You must be desperate,” Izaya observes as he pushes the door shut, glances sideways at Shizuo. His eyes look darker without the illumination of sunlight, his hair ink-black against the white of his skin. “You know you can jerk off, you don’t have to save it all up for me.”

Shizuo hisses, steps in closer as if it’s likely to win any kind of submission from the other. Izaya just grins the wider, tipping back as easily as if gravity doesn’t quite affect him as it should, the angle of his chin turning the expression on his face into a taunt. His collarbones are sharp-edged, dipping into pools of shadow when he shifts his shoulder, and it’s then that Shizuo notices the color, the faint tracery of a green-faded bruise at Izaya’s shoulder. There’s a pair of them, familiar even before he reaches out to press his fingers against the marks like there’s something to feel, the shape of his teeth printed against Izaya’s skin like a badge of ownership.

“I told you you’d leave a mark,” Izaya says, clear and calm. When Shizuo looks at him he’s smiling still, amusement curving over the shape of his mouth, and when his eyes dip down to Shizuo’s lips the result is more instinct than deliberation. Shizuo’s hand catches against dark hair, shower-damp strands clinging to his palm, and Izaya tilts his head back to the pull, making a surrender of his throat before Shizuo ducks in to crush his mouth to the other’s. There’s a shudder of sound, Izaya laughing or groaning against his lips, and then fingers at Shizuo’s neck, Izaya arching forward to press the damp heat of his skin to the other’s t-shirt. There’s the door just behind them, the support of a wall drawing Shizuo’s attention, and then Izaya bites his lip, flaring pain enough into his blood that he jerks back with a growl of irritation.

“Upstairs,” Izaya announces, still smiling with eyes gone black under the shadow of his hair. His hands slide away, tempt friction against Shizuo’s skin, and then he’s moving, twisting away and up the stairs like the other’s hold on his hair doesn’t exist at all.

“I fucking  _hate_  you,” Shizuo growls, taking the stairs with somewhat more dignity and grace than the first time he managed them. Izaya is waiting for him at the top, leaning against the railing with a smirk so self-satisfied Shizuo can’t decide if he wants to bruise his knuckles into it or bite it off the other’s mouth. He doesn’t have a chance to decide anyway; Izaya unfolds as Shizuo gets within reach, backing away down the hall like he’s following the steps of some dance Shizuo’s never learned as he keeps his grin like the bait it is. It’s only a few feet to the door, barely enough for Shizuo to catch up over the gap between them, and then he’s rounding the corner and Izaya’s on him again, grabbing for a handful of his hair before Shizuo has even entirely processed their surroundings.

Not that it makes a difference. The room is brighter than the last time he was here, his vision significantly more clear, but the details are unimportant; he’s got a skinny hip under his palm, after all, the dragging pressure of fingernails scraping against the back of his neck, and that odd licorice bite of Izaya on his tongue, the flavor enough to make him cringe even as he pushes in harder, stumbles them a step further into the room.

“Did you miss me?” Izaya asks when Shizuo fits his lips to his jaw instead of his mouth, presses flush against the pale line of his throat to suck a fresh bruise against the white. “It’s been almost a whole week since I graced you with my presence, you must have been lonely.”

“Fuck you,” Shizuo says against the fading bruises on Izaya’s shoulder, shoves forward to stumble Izaya another step back towards the bed. “I didn’t miss you at all.”

“Of course you didn’t,” Izaya purrs, sliding backwards a half-step and drawing Shizuo with him. “That’s why you ran over here as soon as I called you.”

“I didn’t  _run_ ,” Shizuo hisses, tries to take a step forward and hits the edge of the bed instead. His balance goes, sends him careening forward as Izaya sidesteps with an uncanny grace to leave him standing over the mattress while Shizuo gasps breathless from the fall.

“I wonder,” Izaya says, and he’s dropping to the bed too, his knee landing between Shizuo’s as he leans in over the other. His hair falls into a curtain around his features, drops his eyes into something unfathomable even with the illumination of the sunlight fitting past the blinds. “I thought you were a wild animal, but if you can be taught to answer to your name maybe you  _can_  be trained after all.”

“Fuck you Izaya,” Shizuo manages, spitting the words like the blows he’s fantasized about, and Izaya’s grin cracks wide over his expression, lights something dangerous and bright in his eyes.

“Inventive as ever,” he says, saccharine sarcasm dripping off his words. “Why did you  _think_  you came here?” His hand is braced against the bed, the tension in his arm flexing against his shoulder, but Shizuo’s not watching the other, startles when fingers shove in against the bottom of his shirt. “Did you just want company?” The fabric comes up, fingernails drag against skin, and Izaya’s hand is sliding impossibly lower, fitting inside the edge of Shizuo’s jeans like the fabric’s not even there.

“Not yours,” Shizuo says, reaches out for Izaya’s hip to hold him steady while he reaches for the other’s fly. Izaya laughs, makes no move to pull away; he’s hot through the denim, Shizuo can feel the resistance dragging against the fabric, and then the jeans come open on bare skin underneath. It makes him grin, a sudden burst of amusement to counterbalance the heat-haze dominating his body, and when he slides his fingers in to shove against Izaya’s cock he can feel the responsive tremor all through the other’s arm.

“You just want sex, then,” Izaya says, sounding a little bit shaky, a little like he’s fighting for the words. He’s grinning, still, the expression adopting a faintly manic edge, and then he ducks his head and gasps out a hard exhale as Shizuo closes his fingers against his length and jerks up ungently.

“Yeah,” Shizuo growls. “Same as you.”

“ _Please_ ,” Izaya huffs, lifts his head again to offer a shadowed smirk. “Like I couldn’t find someone with twice your skill in any bar in town.”

“Like hell,” Shizuo says, tightens his grip and twists his hand against the head of Izaya’s cock just to watch the way the other’s expression flickers into heat for a moment, the way his eyes shut for a breath of reaction. “Why didn’t you call any of  _them_  over here to fuck you like you want?”

Izaya’s laugh has teeth under it. “Oh, Shizu-chan,” he purrs, drawling condescension all over the words. “How do you know I didn’t?”

Shizuo can feel the tension hit his blood. It surges out into him, fire crackling destruction through his veins and washing his vision red with anger, the put-on pity in Izaya’s tone nothing compared to the images evolving in his head, the dip of Izaya’s shoulder and the cut of his smile aimed at someone else, the shift of dark eyelashes at some formless stranger, the angle of skinny fingers dragging across someone else’s body.

“ _Fuck you_ ,” he spits, and he’s moving, shoving so hard at Izaya’s hip that the other falls sideways over the bed, would topple off the other side if not for the press of Shizuo’s fingers into that sharp dip of bone. Izaya goes breathless, his exhale rushing out of him at the fall, and Shizuo rolls sideways and up to lean over him, abandoning the stroke of his fingers to grab at Izaya’s hair instead, to shove him hard against the sheets. “You  _wouldn’t_.”

Izaya cuts his eyes at him, the sideways angle of his expression doing nothing to soften the edge of his smirk or the taunt in his eyes. “Are you sure?”

Shizuo shoves him down against the sheets. Izaya is laughing, a breathless manic sound catching against the mattress, and Shizuo is grabbing at his jeans, stripping the fabric down off the other’s legs so hard he can feel the denim catch and drag friction burns against Izaya’s knee. Izaya’s laughter dips, slows, his hand coming out to brace against the bed, and Shizuo presses a hand to the other’s back, just between the flex of his shoulders, to hold him face-down against the bed.

“Are you  _jealous_?” Izaya purrs, the word coming off over his tongue like an endearment, like intoxication. “I thought you  _hated_  me, Shizu-chan.”

“Shut up,” Shizuo growls, holding against Izaya’s shoulders while he reaches for the bedside table, the bottle tipped over sideways against the surface. His heart is pounding in his chest, red-washed shadows clinging to his vision as he thumbs the cap open and spills the liquid over Izaya’s skin. Izaya hisses at the cold, arches in some kind of attempted movement, but Shizuo holds him where he is, drops the bottle to drag his fingers through the slick of the spilled lube instead. It clings to his skin, coats his fingers, and when he draws his hand down to thrust a finger into the other’s body it makes the movement smooth and slick and fast.

“ _Did_  you?” Shizuo asks, the question turning to a demand on his lips. Izaya’s hot against him, tensing in shivering ripples of reaction to match the hitch of his breathing, but Shizuo can’t look at his face, can’t look away from the pattern of bruising he left on the other’s shoulder. “Fuck you, Izaya, did you?”

Izaya tips his head sideways, gazes at Shizuo through the dark haze of his lashes. “Do you care?”

“ _Fuck_ ,” Shizuo growls, draws his hand back to thrust in again. Izaya’s back arches, his shoulders flexing involuntarily under Shizuo’s hold, but it’s not enough, Shizuo’s blood is going hotter instead of cooler. He pulls back, angles another finger in alongside the first, and while Izaya is groaning involuntary capitulation he hisses, “ _No_ , I don’t  _fucking_  care.”

“Then it doesn’t matter,” Izaya manages without opening his eyes. Shizuo can see the tremors running along his spine, the tension skimming across his features with every thrust of the other’s hand. Shizuo spreads his fingers wider, watches Izaya flinch and turn his face down against the sheets, his fingers twisting into a knot on the blanket under him. “Just  _fuck_  me, Shizu-chan.”

Shizuo hisses, some token resistance to the implied order as he draws his hand back and free of the grip of Izaya’s body. It takes two hands to pull his jeans open, to push his clothes off his hips, but Izaya doesn’t try to move away or turn over; he just tips his head to the side, watches Shizuo through the dark of his hair with his mouth turning over a smirk Shizuo can’t read as either mockery or sincerity. He can see the mark of his mouth from earlier, the red print of it against Izaya’s throat; it purrs satisfaction into his chest as he strokes slick fingers over himself, as he catches his fingers in against Izaya’s hip to draw him back up over his knees. Izaya obeys that, at least, shifts so he can come up on hands and knees, and then there’s just the tension in his shoulders, the curve of his back so defined Shizuo can see the individual bones of his spine. Shizuo comes up on his knees, braces himself against Izaya’s hip, and they’re just falling into alignment, his body fitting against Izaya’s as Izaya tips back towards him, when the shadow clarifies itself again, offers the image of Izaya under other men, arching towards them or dragging at the bedsheets, his expression falling slack with pleasure for someone else, someone different, someone not Shizuo.

“It matters,” Shizuo says.

Izaya heaves a sigh, looks back over his shoulder. “Really?” Shizuo can hear the disbelief lacing his tone, the eyeroll audible if not visible. “Right now?”

“It  _fucking_  matters,” Shizuo repeats. “ _Did_  you?”

Izaya stares at him for a moment. His eyes are dark, his mouth oddly flat, absent his usual smirk or the frown that Shizuo has seen on occasion in its place. Then he looks away, ducks his head under the fall of his hair, and when he says, “No” it’s in a tone Shizuo has never heard before, softer and almost a whisper.

Shizuo takes a breath, feels the knot of weird anxiety in his chest loosen, the darkness recede. “Good,” he says, and thrusts forward into Izaya. There’s a gasp of breath, Izaya’s exhale forced out of him like he’s fallen again, and Shizuo groans, his body flexing hot on satisfaction instead of fury. He leans in closer, feels the effort thrumming through his body when he draws back for another thrust, but it’s worth it for the way he can feel Izaya shudder under him, can watch the effort of bracing himself ripple through the other’s shoulders.

“No one else?” he asks, aiming the question for the back of Izaya’s neck, the slope of pale skin absent any marks but those Shizuo put there.

“ _Fuck_ ,” Izaya groans, heat swamping the irritation in his voice. “ _No_ , Shizu-chan, just you.”

“Tell me again,” Shizuo demands, still staring at Izaya’s neck. “Tell me  _again_ , Izaya.”

“You  _are_ jealous,” Izaya says, purring like it’s a victory. Shizuo thrusts forward, hard enough to break apart whatever the other was going to say, and Izaya hisses, throws a hand out to brace himself against the wall. “Don’t like the idea of other people touching what’s yours?”

“Fuck  _off_ , Izaya,” Shizuo snaps, because it seems safer than  _no, I don’t_ , ducks his head to press his mouth against pale skin, to dig his teeth in at the back of Izaya’s neck. Izaya shudders at the contact, tenses against Shizuo’s chest, and Shizuo lets one of his bracing hands go so he can reach around and close his fingers around the other’s cock instead. Izaya’s burning under his touch, spilling slick against the flushed head of his cock, and he whines when Shizuo jerks over him, his legs trembling with tension as telltale as the hot catch of his breathing.

“Fuck,” Izaya chokes. Shizuo tightens his fingers, presses his thumb in against the other’s cock; he can feel Izaya tighten against him, the shiver of response rippling through his whole body. “ _Fuck_.” His shoulders are flexing with each forward stroke of Shizuo’s hips, the arm he has out to brace himself catching the impact; Shizuo’s mind is going hazy, his heart beating hard and out-of-time as he pushes in deeper, strokes harder, every inhale tasting like licorice and blood and Izaya, hot and bitter and then Izaya’s groaning, “ _Shizu--_ ” half-formed before it gives way to trembling reaction all through his body. His cock flushes hot in Shizuo’s hold, spills sticky against the other’s fingers, and Shizuo eases the pressure of his teeth at Izaya’s skin, fucks hard against the support of that bracing arm like he’s drawing the tremors of sensation from the other singlehandedly. His skin is hot, his shirt clinging to his shoulders and sticking against the pale arch of Izaya’s back, and then Izaya takes a breath and shoves back against him, rocking to meet Shizuo’s thrust, and Shizuo loses himself all at once. He chokes on a startled inhale, the noise mostly muffled against Izaya’s skin, and Izaya purrs something hot and slick and satisfied as Shizuo’s vision goes white and the tension in his body collapses into pleasure. He’s gasping for air, shivering through each surge of sensation, and Izaya is humming a low note of satisfaction, the sound thrumming like laughter in his throat.

Shizuo is shaking when he extricates himself. His mouth tastes like blood to match the print of teeth he’s left at Izaya’s skin, his whole body trembling with exhaustion and satisfaction at once; he drops back to sit against the bed, to stare vague with heat as Izaya settles himself over his heels, lifts a hand to press against the mark of Shizuo’s mouth on him.

“And just when the bruises were fading,” he sighs, the resignation in his tone audibly put-on even before he looks over his shoulder to flash a grin at Shizuo, lifts his bloody fingers to his lips to lick them clean. “You really do want to mark me as your territory.”

“Shut up,” Shizuo says without enough energy to grant it the aggression he intends.

Izaya just laughs, turns around and reaches out for the back of Shizuo’s neck. Shizuo’s expecting a scratch to match the bite he left, maybe the dig of teeth against his lip, but all Izaya does is fit their mouths together, the contact surprisingly gentle even when he licks against Shizuo’s tongue.

His mouth tastes the same as Shizuo’s.


	22. Shock

“So after all that, they didn’t even accept our tickets at the entrance,” Kadota finishes. “Ended up being a waste of an entire day’s effort.” Togusa heaves a sigh alongside him; he has barely looked up from his half-full coffee cup since Shizuo came into the shop, only mustering the barest nod of greeting before returning to the contemplation of his woes in the mug in front of him. Shizuo’s pretty sure he hasn’t been drinking from the cup either.

“Togusa’s been sulking ever since,” Erika observes. From the way she’s eyeing the other’s cup, Shizuo has a pretty good idea of who is responsible for the missing liquid.

“It was an adventure not to be missed!” Walker puts in, throwing one dramatic arm wide as if the gesture will prove his point. “A tragedy on the scale of Romeo and Juliet!”

“The scale of a teenage romance gone awry?” Erika asks.

“Indeed!” Walker agrees. He and Erika lift their heads, gaze off into some impossible distance with as many stars in their eyes as if it’s stage lights they’re seeing. “The longing -- the hope -- the expectation of satisfaction, resolution on the horizon when--”

“ _Kaboom_ ,” Erika finishes. “Everything collapses to irredeemable ruin.”

“Precisely!” Walker extends a hand; Erika presses Togusa’s cup into it without taking a drink herself. Walker lifts it high, an offering to some unseen god of the stage: “Art!” he sighs, a prayer and thanks at once. Then he lowers the cup, takes a long swallow of it, and reality settles back in around them.

“It makes for a good story, at least,” Shizuo offers, glancing at Togusa to see if the comfort he intends is conveyed. Togusa doesn’t look up, but Kadota offers an apologetic smile, clears his throat and picks up the conversation in the other’s place.

“You seem like you’re in a good mood today,” he offers. “Last time we saw you you were ready to put your fist through the wall.”

“Oh,” Shizuo says, remembering the rough edges of a growl in his throat, the splash of liquid threatened by a too-precipitous exit. Embarrassment turns his cheeks warm, memory brings his gaze out the window to catch at the far side of the street; but there’s nothing there, no one smirking at him from across the pavement. “Yeah. Sorry about that.”

Kadota smiles easy forgiveness, reaches for his cup. “I guess Izaya leaving really was good for your mood, huh?”

Shizuo’s hand stills against the side of his cup. He can feel the heat pressing against his skin, seeping into his blood as Kadota’s words sink into his mind. “What?”

“Last time you were up in arms about Izaya showing up everywhere you went,” Kadota says, backtracking over the wrong part of his statement. “It must be nice to know he’s out of town.”

“He…” Shizuo repeats, slow like he’s struggling to comprehend the language. “He’s out of town?”

“You didn’t know?” Kadota asks. “I heard from Shinra he left two days ago. Took off somewhere without telling anyone.” He shrugs. “He could show back up any time, but at least for now it’s gotta be a relief for you, right?”

“He didn’t know,” Walker announces from the corner of the table. “Pay up, Erika.”

Erika groans, collapses over the edge of the table with a flourish. “ _Damn_ ,” she says to the flat of the surface. “I was  _so_  sure you would be fucking by now.”

“ _Erika_ ,” Kadota chokes, sounding appalled, and it’s at this point that the ceramic of the mug in Shizuo’s hand gives in to the pressure of his grip and shatters.

By the time they’ve sopped up the tea and Shizuo has offered apologies and payment for the broken mug, the subject has been forgotten or at least dropped. It’s Walker who picks up the gap of silence, outlining his latest idea for a bestseller at some length with interjections from Erika regarding plot twists and tragic character backstories. It’s not the sort of conversation Shizuo needs to pay particularly close attention to, which is lucky, because he has forgotten all about it within two minutes after leaving the coffee shop. He’s distracted by his phone, the dark screen taunting him with the lack of messages, and when he types  _where the fuck are you, Izaya?_  he’s pushing Send before he can think through the implications of asking.

His phone stays unresponsive the whole walk home.


	23. Incongruity

“Who just leaves like that?” Shizuo demands over the barrier of the bar counter, staring at Kasuka with as much focus as if his brother might actually have some insight into the inner workings of Izaya Orihara’s mind. “Without any warning to  _anyone_?”

Kasuka considers the dark liquid in the glass before him, toys with the stem of the cherry soaking up the taste of the alcohol. “I’m out of town a lot.”

Shizuo waves this explanation away with one hand. “You’re an  _actor_ ,” he declares. “You have events to appear at and filmings and stuff, you have a  _reason_  to be gone.”

“Maybe he does too,” Kasuka offers, dropping the cherry back into the liquid and lifting it to his mouth to taste a drink.

“He’s not an  _actor_ ,” Shizuo scoffs. It’s enough to make him laugh if he weren’t so tense with irritation all through his veins. “That’s ridiculous.”

“How do you know?” Kasuka asks. “What  _does_  he do?”

“I don’t know,” Shizuo growls. “I never  _asked_. But I know it’s not acting.”

Kasuka looks up from his drink. His eyes are flat, half-lidded into disinterest. “How?”

“I just  _do_ ,” Shizuo insists, pushing away from the counter to pace over the space behind the bar. The counter is empty of anyone but Kasuka, the fact that they technically aren’t open for another five minutes overlooked by Tom’s consideration for the ever-spreading fame that prevents Kasuka from casually frequenting bars with any customers at all. “There’s no reason for him to be out of town except to  _piss me off_.”

“I thought you were upset that he was following you,” Kasuka says, looking back down at his glass with only the faintest flicker of interest as he swirls the liquid against the sides. “Shouldn’t you be glad that he’s gone?”

“ _No_ ,” Shizuo insists, loud like the volume will help to cover up the complete lack of rationality behind this statement. “No, I  _don’t_  want him gone, and it’s only  _right now_  that he decides to disappear.”

“Okay,” Kasuka agrees easily. He sips against the edge of his glass again, lowering the surface of the liquid enough to reveal the top edge of the fruit to the air. “You could call him.”

“I tried,” Shizuo admits to the counter, pushing a clean glass back against the edge because it gives him something to glare at that isn’t Kasuka. “It says the number’s disconnected. And he’s not answering texts either.”

“Maybe he thinks you hate him,” Kasuka suggests. Another swallow and his drink is gone, the ice clinking gently against the side as he sets it down.

“He  _knows_  that,” Shizuo insists, pushing back from the counter to pace back to where Kasuka is sitting. “He’s known that  _all along_ , why would anything change  _now_?”

Kasuka shrugs, retrieves the cherry from the glass. “Did something happen?” he asks rhetorically, and Shizuo can taste licorice on his tongue, can feel the sharp edge of skinny hips under his palm,can hear the sound of  _it matters_  echoing strangely between his chest and his ears. He can feel his cheeks going hot, his blush dark enough that he’s afraid it’s visible even in the dim lighting of the bar, but if Kasuka notices he doesn’t say anything, doesn’t even flicker a blink Shizuo’s direction.

“It’ll work out,” he says around the cherry as he breaks the stem free to drop back in the glass. There’s no question in his tone at all, just complete conviction; it would be more of a comfort if he didn’t sound quite so much like he’s pointing out an unpleasant truth, like ‘eventually nothing matters’ or ‘we all die someday.’ It makes Shizuo frown frustration as Kasuka collects his bag, straightens the hat that does nothing to hide his features but probably looks very stylish to people who can tell such things.

“I’m going to go meet Ruri,” he says, sounding more like he’s going to a job than to a date. “I’ll see you.”

“Yeah,” Shizuo offers, even lifting a hand to wave Kasuka off as he heads towards the back door where Tom is waiting to let him out.

Shizuo isn’t proud that he checks his phone again as soon as Kasuka is out of sight, but at least he managed to wait until he didn’t have an audience for the way he growls irritation at the maddeningly blank screen.


	24. Void

By the time Celty pulls the scooter to a stop in front of Shinra’s apartment, Shizuo has nearly convinced himself to stop hoping.

It’s a stupid thing to think, he knows, absurd to expect that Izaya will have suddenly reappeared in town just because Shinra decided to have a party. There’s not even any way for Izaya to  _know_  that the party is going on, since the number he gave to Shizuo is disconnected and the number Shinra has (a different one, Shizuo found out earlier in the week, not nearly as surprised as he ought to have been by this revelation) has been just as unresponsive whenever Shizuo’s irritation gets high enough to outweigh his pride and urge him to ask. But Izaya all but lives on knowing things he shouldn’t know, in Shizuo’s experience, seems to delight in appearing where he is least expected, and all Shizuo’s arguments for why he  _won’t_  be here end up serving the opposite function and leave his heart fluttering somewhere between anticipation and built-up rage as they climb the steps to the front door.

 _Are you okay?_  Celty asks, not for the first time; she’s been sending Shizuo sideways glances all night.

“I’m fine,” Shizuo grates, shoving his hands farther into his pockets. “It’s fine.”

Celty pauses at the top of the stairs, looks back over her shoulder. A breeze catches the hem of her skirt, ruffles the fabric around her knees; for a minute she’s taller than Shizuo, looking down at him through the shadows with misplaced sympathy in her eyes.

 _It’ll be okay_ , she offers, her fingers working over often-repeated shapes that offer far less comfort than is intended.  _Izaya’s not going to just appear out of nowhere._

It is supposed to be reassurance. Shizuo knows that, rationally, even as the oblique mention skids adrenaline into him and tightens his hands into fists in his pockets. He’s grateful for the darkness of the hour; it lets him duck his head, grate “Yeah, you’re right” and pretend that the irritation in his voice is doubt and not suspicion that Celty is right.

The door opens immediately when they knock. That in and of itself is a giveaway, even before Shinra offers an overenthusiastic, “Celty!” to the nighttime quiet and reaches out to catch at her hands to draw her inside. Celty is laughing, her whole face going warm and soft with affection, and Shizuo trails her into the brightly lit interior, some of Shinra’s evident delight rubbing off on him and persuading him into a smile in spite of the electric almost-anticipation along his spine.

“No word from Izaya,” Shinra offers as Shizuo pushes the door shut, tries very hard not to look at the darkened stairwell and not to draw up the memory of purring laughter. “You’ll have to find something else to amuse you for the night!” There’s a catch on the words, the sound of repressed amusement or maybe too-much-knowing that brings Shizuo’s head up, his breathing catching on a sudden surge of panic at getting found out; but Shinra’s not looking at him, has his head ducked in to whisper something against Celty’s ear, and the possibility fades from Shizuo’s mind as they move down the hallway and towards the buzz of sound.

He’d like to say that’s it. It would be easier to bear if he shrugged off the possibility right then, if he pushed Izaya from his mind and concentrated on the present, free of the other’s influence. But Izaya’s in his blood, on his skin, infecting his memories until every burst of laughter echoes with familiarity, every clink of glass against a surface shivers recollection down Shizuo’s spine. The haze of alcohol doesn’t help either; the taste just clings to Shizuo’s tongue, reminds him of the scrape of fingernails against his neck and the bite of blood on his lips, friction hot and hazy with intoxication and gasping inhales he can only remember piecemeal around the gaps in his memory.

He lingers for an hour, waits through most of a second before even the unreasonable anticipation along his spine fizzles and dies. Then he just feels tired, like all the alcohol he drinks is converting to exhaustion in his blood, and it’s only force of will that keeps him where he is until the clock slides over to midnight and gives him the plausibility to head home.

He doesn’t see Celty right away, decides it’s better to walk himself home than risk either interrupting her and Shinra or inadvertently guilting her into accompanying him home. The lonely walk suits his mood anyway, lets him beat dangerous disappointment into the solid weight of anger with every step, and if he’s toying with his phone the whole way back, when he gets home he turns it off without giving in to the temptation of sending so much as a curse into the void.


	25. Missing

Shizuo’s only been awake for an hour when there’s a knock on the door.

He knows Celty is gone -- a note left on the counter in her careful handwriting told him she left to go to brunch with Shinra and probably wouldn’t be back until late in the evening -- and the absence of anyone to witness him has given him the leeway to take his time waking up, to fumble himself into a cup of tea and drink it slowly in front of the computer before he bothers with a shower or putting on anything more formal than a t-shirt and sweatpants.

The tea is lukewarm and over half finished when the knock comes, the sound so unexpected that Shizuo almost doesn’t get it at all. It’s too early for any of his acquaintances to be dropping by -- he’s not actually sure that Kadota and his crew  _exist_  before noon on a Saturday, is sure Kasuka would have offered more warning than dropping by uninvited. It seems most likely that it’s a package being dropped off on Celty’s behalf, or possibly well-meaning evangelists; if the first, it’s worth bringing the box inside, and if the second, Shizuo hopes that his clearly half-asleep state will bring an apology and a swift departure without wasting anyone’s time on a fruitless endeavor.

He’s still thinking about this second possibility when he reaches for the handle, composing his features into perhaps a more sleep-hazy expression than he is truly feeling as he draws the door open; it seems like a reasonable precaution, at any rate, and if it’s just a package then no one will ever be the wiser anyway. Then the door is open, and he’s looking up at what is neither a package nor an evangelist of any kind, and he is shockingly, instantly awake.

Izaya’s grin is blinding in the morning sunlight. “Did I wake you, Shizu-chan?”

For a moment Shizuo can’t speak. There is adrenaline surging into his veins, giving him mental whiplash that leaves him incoherent for a moment; he can’t decide what he’s feeling, if it’s excitement or shock or desire, and what comes out of his mouth as a stopgap is, “What are you  _doing_  here?”

Izaya’s head tilts to the side, his eyebrows rising up towards his hairline. Shizuo can feel the heat of his gaze like a flame as it drags over his shoulders and down across the thin fabric of his t-shirt, catches at the loose waistband of his sweatpants.

“Do you need me to spell it out for you?” he asks, dragging his eyes back up so he’s staring at Shizuo through the shadow of his hair. His eyes look darker than Shizuo remembers. “I thought we should change things up and meet here instead of at my place.” His mouth dips into a mockery of a pout, the dark of his eyebrows drawing together in an imitation of hurt. “It’s rude not to return an invitation, you know, Shizu-chan.”

Shizuo can feel his chest tighten, his throat constrict as all the adrenaline rushing into his veins makes a single, coordinated decision to commit to a reaction. The anger is bright like the sun, incandescent rage flaring into his veins with all the weight of justification behind it, and when he hisses, “ _You_ ,” he can see something in Izaya’s expression flicker, some of that deliberate amusement in his eyes falter into what might be fear.

Shizuo might find that satisfying, if he weren’t so  _mad_.

Izaya’s shirt is soft under his fingers, crumples easy into a fist when Shizuo tightens his grip. When he drags it’s sharp, hard enough to pull Izaya bodily into the apartment, and if it’s too fast for Izaya to keep his footing the red over Shizuo’s vision doesn’t care any more than it cares about the creak of the doorframe when he slams the door shut and shoves Izaya up against it.

“What the  _fuck_ ,” he growls, the rumble low in his chest raw, unchecked fury.

“Shizu-chan,” Izaya says, and he’s not looking at Shizuo’s hips anymore; he’s staring into the other’s eyes, has one hand up to brace himself against Shizuo’s wrist as if his hold isn’t something Shizuo could shake off without thinking. His eyes are wide but he’s still smiling, his voice shaking like he’s on the verge of a laugh. “I take it you missed me?”

Shizuo slams his hand against the door, so close to Izaya’s head it’s only the other flinching aside that saves him from getting hit by it. Izaya hisses, reflex overcoming any intention he may have had to stay calm, and Shizuo shoves harder against his chest, presses his knuckles in hard until he can hear Izaya’s breath gust out of his lungs in response to the force.

“ _Three weeks_ ,” he growls to the tension forming itself across Izaya’s forehead, smile and laugh alike abandoned so he can gasp little hiccuping inhales of air instead. “Three  _fucking_  weeks, where the  _fuck_  were you?”

“Shizu-chan--”

“ _Fuck you_ ,” Shizuo interrupts, tips in to knock his forehead against Izaya’s. He can feel the other’s stuttering breathing against his mouth. “ _Fuck_  you, you  _disappear_  and I’m the last fucking person to know about it?”

Izaya’s mouth drags into the outline of a smile, his chin tilts up; Shizuo can feel him drawing closer, the threat of an approaching kiss against the tension at his lips. “Maybe you should have been paying more attention,” he purrs, only sounding a little bit breathless and not at all frightened in spite of the heartbeat Shizuo can feel thudding frantic against the weight of his knuckles.

“Maybe you should have  _fucking told me_.” Shizuo’s words burn like alcohol in his throat, taste like fire on his lips. “So I didn’t have to hear it from fucking  _Kadota_.”

“What are you angry about, Shizu-chan?” Izaya asks. He’s hissing for air, his breathing laced with effort, but Shizuo can feel the way he’s grinning, the expression spreading wider like it’s rising with the lack of air. “That I didn’t tell you, or that you missed me?”

Shizuo can taste the question on his lips, the bite of the suggestion seeping over his tongue and down his throat. It twists against the anger in his veins, converts it into something of a different nature but similar heat; he doesn’t realize his hold against Izaya’s shirt is loosening until he hears the other take a deep inhale, filling his lungs with the air Shizuo’s hold has been denying him.

“The latter, then,” he says, purring it out of a question, and Shizuo bares his teeth in imitation of the anger dissolving out of him.

“Fuck you,” he says, and then leans in fast to crush against Izaya’s mouth before the other has a chance to offer more than the start of the laugh Shizuo knows is coming. He tastes like chocolate, dark and bitter and clinging, and then Shizuo gets Izaya’s lip between his teeth and bites himself into the tang of blood, into the sour-bright hiss of pain from Izaya’s throat.

“I’m back five minutes and already you’re trying to mark me?” Izaya asks when Shizuo draws back long enough to reach for his hip, his leg, something to drag his sharp edges closer. An arm comes around Shizuo’s shoulders, a knee hooks around his hip, and Shizuo growls something unintelligible and satisfied as he takes Izaya’s weight and shoves him back against the door.

“This is familiar,” Izaya comments against Shizuo’s hair, thin fingers drawing into a fist on the strands and forcing the other’s head back for a moment. Izaya’s ducking in closer, his lips fitting against Shizuo’s throat, and Shizuo’s pretty sure the wet drag of his mouth is going to leave a bruise and he really can’t find it in him to mind. “Making it to an actual bed  _is_ a bit too civilized for you.”

“Shut  _up_ ,” Shizuo says, his head still angled back so the words strain themselves outside of his usual range. He lets Izaya’s shirt go, grabs at his hip instead; his fingers fit into the dip of bone, dig in until he can feel the skin giving way to the dark of bruises. He’s still bracing at the wall, the support of his palm given way to the press of a forearm against the surface, but Izaya’s free hand is pressing down between them, his fingers working over the front of his jeans and catching Shizuo’s shirt up off the bare skin of his stomach as if by accident in the process. Teeth catch Shizuo’s throat, scrape into a flash of hurt, and Shizuo growls, turns his head back down so he can repay the ache with a bruising kiss of his own. Izaya lets him, opening his mouth in expectation and offer at once, and Shizuo takes the suggestion, licks hard against the almost metallic bite of Izaya’s mouth like it’s the irresistible draw of sugar. He tastes foreign, like the time out of the city has changed the flavor of his mouth like it has the smell of his hair, and Shizuo growls frustration and presses in closer, tries to push past the unfamiliarity down to something he can recognize as Izaya untangles himself and takes his own weight back so he can push his jeans off.

“Are you going to admit you missed me?” he asks as he drags one foot free of the fabric, angling his hip in  a way Shizuo didn’t know he could as he does. Shizuo is breathing hard, didn’t realize he was panting for breath until they broke apart, his lips burning with friction and heat indistinguishable from one another.

“You should have told me,” he says instead of answering, shoves Izaya’s shirt up off his waist and ducks his head to bite at his shoulder through the fabric. There’s a hiss of pain against his ear, the sound too-loud and sharp with the volume, but Shizuo doesn’t pull away, even when Izaya’s fistful of his hair drags into an ache against his scalp.

“That would have defeated the purpose,” Izaya says, his lips pressed so near Shizuo’s ear the normal tone he takes feels like a shout. Shizuo hisses, bites harder, listens to Izaya’s breathing skid out around a laugh and a moan at once. He’s shifting his weight back, kicking his foot free of his jeans, and the hold at Shizuo’s hair is sliding free so Izaya can pull something out of the pocket before he tosses the fabric aside.

“I really fucking hate you,” Shizuo says against the damp of Izaya’s shirt, tips his weight forward to grind against the other’s hips as he lets his hold go to fumble for Izaya’s hand, for the bottle he knows will be there. It’s slick against his palm, the lid slippery from past use, but he tightens his grip and thumbs the cap open one-handed before he draws back enough to bring both hands to bear on the effort. “Why can’t you act like a normal fucking human being?”

“Why can’t you?” Izaya asks. He’s tugging at Shizuo’s sweatpants as the other spills slick liquid over his palm, the catch of his fingers dragging raw scratches over Shizuo’s hips as he goes. Shizuo would hiss, would snap irritation, but Izaya’s wrapping his fingers around his cock and making this sound far back in his throat like all the air is leaving his lungs at once, and the heat that surges into his veins takes the place of irritation for the time being.

“I’m  _perfectly_  normal,” Shizuo snaps, reaches out to slide slick fingers up the inside of Izaya’s too-skinny thigh. Izaya makes that noise again, too low to even quite be a moan, angles his knee wide in offering to make space for Shizuo’s hand to fit between his legs. He’s hot against Shizuo’s skin, his cock flushed hard before Shizuo’s touched it, but Shizuo ignores that for now, slides his fingers farther back while Izaya’s spine arches in anticipation. “I tried to call you, I texted you,  _you’re_  the one who disconnected your  _fucking_  phone.” His fingers slide against Izaya’s entrance, press lubrication against the skin, and he angles his hand to fit a finger inside the other, presses his shoulders in close while Izaya’s head goes back and his throat opens up on what is unmistakably a groan, this time. “Was that even your real number in the first place?”

Izaya reaches for Shizuo’s shoulders, pulls hard against the support as his leg comes up to hook around Shizuo’s waist, the angle urging Shizuo’s hand deeper. “Shizu-chan,” he croons, and Shizuo can hear the mockery coming but can’t pull away, can’t do anything but thrust his finger deeper and feel Izaya give way to the pressure. “That’s not normal.”

“What the fuck,” Shizuo says, draws his hand back so he can punctuate with another thrust. “What are you talking about? That’s perfectly normal, I’d do the same for anyone.”

“Not for someone you hate,” Izaya says, his voice thrumming with victory in his throat. “I thought you  _hated_  me.”

Shizuo’s movement stalls for a moment, his thoughts skidding out on any possibility of defense to this claim. Because he does, of  _course_  he does, the last thing he wants is to spend any longer with Izaya than he actually has to, of course that’s--

“Fuck,” he says, and draws his hand back to thrust in with a second finger while Izaya purrs laughter against his hair. “Fuck you,  _fuck you_  Izaya, I  _do_  hate you.”

“Sure you do,” Izaya lilts, sounding wholly unconvinced as he arches off the door until his cock bumps the unmoving hold he has on Shizuo’s. “That’s why you’re thirty seconds out from fucking me against your front door.”

“Why did you leave?” Shizuo growls, abandoning the line of questioning he can’t find the clarity to answer. “What were you doing?”

“Being gone,” Izaya offers cryptically. His fingers shift, flex and release, and Shizuo shudders, his cock throbbing heat in response to the pressure. “Come on, aren’t you ready yet?”

Shizuo growls, leans in to shove his forehead against Izaya’s again while he slides his fingers free, reaches to shove Izaya’s hand off so he can stroke lubrication over himself. Izaya lets go willingly enough, drapes his arm around Shizuo’s neck atop the first, and when Shizuo reaches to grab at his knee and hold his legs open he lets him do that too, doesn’t offer as much as a hiss of protest at the angle Shizuo is imposing on his thighs.

“What were you doing?” Shizuo growls as he rocks his weight forward, fits his cock against Izaya in place of the slick of his fingers.

Izaya’s fingers wind into his hair, Izaya’s teeth scrape against his lower lip in the threat of a bite. “Did you miss me?”

“Fuck you,” Shizuo says against Izaya’s mouth, and thrusts up into him. There’s a tremor of reaction, Izaya’s hold in his hair dragging taut for a moment, but mostly it’s the groan Shizuo’s interested in, the breathless moan to serve as backdrop for the friction purring heat up his spine and pleasure low into his stomach. He draws back, fucks into Izaya again, and then he’s letting his hold on the other’s knee go, reaching for the heat of the cock pressed against his stomach instead.

“Just tell me,” he growls, sounding a little threatening and mostly just like raw heat. Izaya’s fingernails are scraping over his scalp, his breathing catching faster as Shizuo fits his fingers into a hold; he can feel Izaya’s full-body shudder of reaction when he strokes over him. “Just fucking  _tell_  me, Izaya.”

“You first,” Izaya pants. When Shizuo tries to focus on his eyes he can’t see anything but dark, Izaya’s pupils blown so wide they dominate all the color of his eyes. Shizuo moves again, matches the thrust of his hips to the stroke of his hand, and Izaya’s eyelashes flutter, go heavy and dark for a moment before he collects himself. “Tell me you missed me, Shizu-chan.”

“Fuck,” Shizuo growls, because he can feel his resolve slipping, his grasp on his self-control as slippery as if the heat of Izaya’s body is melting it away to nothing. “ _Fuck_.”

“Shizu-chan,” Izaya says again, his voice dipping the vowels into shadow and temptation. “ _Tell me_.”

“I missed you,” Shizuo says, fast and hard, thrusts forward so hard Izaya chokes and whines half-hearted protest. “I  _fucking_  missed you, what were you  _doing_?”

Izaya’s laughter pours against his mouth like alcohol, leaves the bite of licorice in its wake. “Making you miss me.”

It takes Shizuo a moment to parse this. When the meaning comes together into his head, he can feel it settle like an epiphany, rippling clear and cool and illuminating through his thoughts. He thinks probably he should be angry, probably he should be offended, that he should feel manipulated or used or mocked, maybe.

He’s surprised when he hears himself laugh instead.

“Really,” he says, thrusts forward to steal Izaya’s breath again, strokes his fingers up over the head of the other’s cock. “You’re  _that_  obsessed?” Another stroke, another thrust, he can feel the shudder of reaction thrum down Izaya’s spine and hiss in his breath. “You left town for  _three weeks_  just to get a rise out of me?”

Izaya’s smile is so sharp it could cut glass. “It worked.”

“You’re fucking insane,” Shizuo tells him, jerks his hold on Izaya’s cock up hard so the other’s eyelashes flutter again, his smile failing as his mouth goes slack on another whine of reaction. It’s intoxicating, the helplessness written so clearly across his face, and Shizuo does it again, feels his spine spark hot as Izaya flinches from the sensation, as the other’s grip on his hair drags hard. “What the fuck is  _wrong_  with you?”

Izaya doesn’t answer. He has his eyes shut for good, now, isn’t even trying to speak coherently; he’s leaning in against Shizuo, his spine curving tighter with every one of the other’s movements, until Shizuo is hissing at the pressure, his movements stuttering out of rhythm as Izaya tenses around him. Izaya’s panting against his mouth, all the air between them turning to steam from one pair of lungs or the other, and then Izaya sucks in an inhale and holds it, his breathing stilling into the silence of anticipation as Shizuo strokes up over him. Shizuo stares at his face, the heat in his own blood pushed aside by anticipation, jerks up once, twice; then he slides his thumb over the head of Izaya’s cock, presses the friction in hard against sensitive skin, and Izaya jerks and gasps and comes, lacing sticky damp across the front of Shizuo’s t-shirt.

Shizuo would be irritated about the fact that somehow Izaya’s shirt is entirely spared the mess, but he’s too flushed with heat and too distracted, and besides, it’s an easily corrected imbalance. He lets Izaya go, grabs at his hip to draw him in closer instead, and when he thrusts up into the other again their shirts catch and stick. Izaya whines, a faint protest to overstimulation, but Shizuo is staring at his mouth, now, gaze catching on the sharp points of canines and the indentation of his own bite against Izaya’s swollen lip. He can’t look away from it, the part of Izaya’s lips or the thrum of sound from Izaya’s throat, and then he’s tipping over the edge, possibility turning into certainty as his movements fall into instinct instead of intention. Heat cracks open into his blood, surges electric-fast all through his veins, and he’s groaning himself into shuddering pleasure, satisfaction rushing through him in waves until he doesn’t realize his eyes are open, that he’s still staring at Izaya’s mouth as he comes. That awareness comes later, when the rush of sensation has given way to a low thrum of satisfaction, when Izaya is dragging at Shizuo’s shoulders as he untangles his legs from their hold around Shizuo’s waist.

“You got my shirt sticky,” Izaya observes as Shizuo pulls away, blinks vacantly at the dark fabric and pale skin making up the view in front of him. Izaya’s hip is bruised, he notes, he can see the span of fingerprints wide over the skin.

“Yeah,” he says, shakes his head in an attempt to clear the haze from his speech. “Well. You started it.”

Izaya heaves a sigh, rolls his eyes dramatically. “We’re at  _your apartment_ ,” he drawls, slow, like Shizuo is too much of an idiot to understand the normal pace of speech. “You have other clothes to change into here. Whatever I end up taking is going to be way too big on me.”

“What?” Shizuo says, brows knitting together as Izaya tugs the hem of his shirt up over his head and tosses it aside to join his discarded jeans. “Who said I was going to let you take my clothes?”

Izaya tosses his hair back from his face, raises an eyebrow at Shizuo. “You wouldn’t send me back home naked, would you?” He takes advantage of Shizuo’s momentarily shocked silence to sidestep the other and head down the hallway towards the rest of the apartment. “I’m taking a shower first, though.”

Shizuo blinks, turns to stare after Izaya’s retreating form. He moves easily, as if this is his apartment and not Shizuo’s, as if he owns the space and everything in it.

“I fucking hate you,” Shizuo growls at his pale shoulders.

Izaya glances back, cuts a smile Shizuo’s way. “Shizu-chan,” he lilts, slurring the name into a taunt on his tongue. “Didn’t your mother ever teach you not to lie?”


	26. Sticky

“Fucking hell, Izaya,” Shizuo growls after what feels like a minor eternity of listening to the shower run on the other side of the drawn curtain. “Are you trying to use up all our hot water at once?”

“It’s your fault,” Izaya snaps back, the high catch of his voice echoing oddly off the enclosed space. “I think my shoulder is still bleeding.”

“Shut the fuck up.” Shizuo kicks a foot out from where he’s leaning against the weight of the towel at the wall, bangs his heel at the side of the bathtub so the impact reverberates off the ceiling and makes Izaya hiss protest. “Get out or I’ll come in and drag you out myself.”

There’s a pause, a splash of a body moving through running water; Shizuo has a moment to wonder if Izaya is actually going to listen to him, a brief impression of reality tilting sideways to allow for this truly alarming possibility. Then a dark head appears from the edge of the curtain, the opaque fabric drawing aside to offer a tantalizing glimpse of wet-slick on pale skin, and Izaya’s raising a dark eyebrow as the shower splashes off the curtain to mist over the floor.

“You  _could_  come in,” Izaya says, slow and drawling the suggestion into a taunt. “Don’t you care about wasting water?”

“Fuck off,” Shizuo says, but his attention is sliding along the path the water is carving along Izaya’s neck, puddling at his collarbone where there’s a purple imprint of teeth against pale skin.

“Are you  _shy_?” Izaya asks, tugs the curtain wider by a half-inch. Shizuo can see fingerprints on his hip, now, the angle of his knee skinny-sharp along his leg. “You had your cock up my ass ten minutes ago and now you don’t want to take your clothes off?” His laugh is worse in the small space, echoing itself into an uncanny pitch as Shizuo growls argument far back in his throat. “You’re a weird kind of prude, Shizu-chan.”

“Goddamn it,” Shizuo growls, pushes himself up off the floor and to his feet so he can strip his shirt up over his head. “Why are you always such a fucking  _prick_?”

“Aww, Shizu-chan,” Izaya mock-pouts, drawing the curtain closed again so even the dark of his hair disappears, leaving just the sound of his voice and the splash of water against skin to attest to his presence. “As if you don’t like it.”

“I  _don’t_.” Shizuo pushes his sweatpants off his hips, kicks them aside to join his t-shirt as he reaches for the edge of the shower curtain. “I fucking  _hate_  it.” The water hits him as soon as the curtain comes open, the spray angled against Izaya’s deliberately cupped hands to spill over his skin and onto the floor; Shizuo hisses and steps forward, drags the curtain shut to save the half-soaked floor from any more water while Izaya laughs and lets the spray land at his bruised shoulder again. He looks skinnier stripped to bare skin, oddly nonthreatening with the dark of his hair plastered wet against his scalp; there’s a weird flutter in Shizuo’s chest when he lets his eyes land on the fingerprints at Izaya’s hip, the bite at his shoulder, the faint tracery of yellow-green marks across the back of his neck from weeks-old bruises. Izaya turns away, dips forward to let the water splash against his face, and Shizuo reaches out without thinking to press his fingers to the texture of teeth just against the top of Izaya’s spine.

There’s another laugh, a low purr of sound made low by the splash of water against Izaya’s mouth. “Admiring your handiwork?” He lifts his head, tilts to look back over his shoulder. His eyelashes are heavy with wet, weighted into a slur of shadow against the crimson of his eyes. “It took forever for that to heal, you know.”

“Yeah,” Shizuo says, but he’s not really listening. He’s stepping in closer, fitting his fingers into the prints at Izaya’s hip, and Izaya’s letting his head fall forward so the weight of his wet hair parts to bare the back of his neck. Shizuo can feel his blood going hot, rising to the temperature of the water and past, scorching a fire through his veins and swelling his cock to bump against the back of Izaya’s thigh.

“Again?” Izaya asks. He reaches out, sets one hand against the shower wall, spreads his fingers wide for the extra traction. Shizuo stares at the shape of his knuckles, follows the angle of Izaya’s wrist down the line of his arm and to the tension in his bracing shoulder. “You really are a sadist, you know, Shizu-chan.”

“Shut up,” Shizuo says, tugs back at Izaya’s hip to urge the other’s feet back a step. The shift in angle tilts Izaya’s back into a curve, flexes his shoulder into tension; the bite mark  _is_  still bleeding, Shizuo can see a trickle of red at the motion before the water catches and washes it away. He fits his fingers between Izaya’s legs, eases one inside; it goes easy, the slick and the stretch from their first round still clinging to the other’s skin.

“Hurry up,” Izaya says, purring the words into the shape of a dare, tilts his hips back in a way that curves his spine into obscenity. “Come on, Shizu-chan, don’t you want to?”

“Fuck,” Shizuo growls, slides his finger free so he can brace the base of his cock instead. “You didn’t wash at all.”

“Mm,” Izaya hums, rocks himself back until he’s pushing himself against the head of Shizuo’s cock. “It would have been a waste of time.” He tips his head back, blinks shadows over his shoulder at Shizuo as his lips drag into a grin. “Animals are easy to predict.”

Shizuo doesn’t bother putting words to his growl of irritation. It wouldn’t do any good, anyway, and besides, that’s not what’s important. What’s important is the way Izaya draws tight around him as he thrusts forward, the way Izaya’s laugh skids into a moan as his eyelashes flutter in the first burst of friction.

“ _Fuck_ ,” he blurts, and then his head is dropping, his hair dipping back into the spray from the shower. Shizuo can feel his legs tensing, the effort shifting in the hip under his fingers, growls amusement as he leans in over the dip of Izaya’s spine. There’s water trickling against the curve of it, tracing the line of the bone down to Izaya’s hip; Shizuo ducks his head, his hair catching spray from the water off Izaya’s shoulder, runs his tongue against the path of the liquid as he fucks forward against Izaya’s bracing hold at the wall.

“Are you  _licking_  me?” Izaya asks, sounding breathless and shaky but still far closer to laughter than Shizuo likes. He bares his teeth against Izaya’s spine, reaches out to fumble for his cock; it’s not much of a surprise to find Izaya flushing to hardness as Shizuo’s fingers sketch out the shape of him. Shizuo draws his hips back, thrusts forward again; he can feel the wet this time, the catch of come clinging to the head of his cock when he slides in deeper into the other’s body.

“I suppose that’s appropriate,” Izaya says, his sentence staggering into a gasp when Shizuo strokes up over him to dig his thumb in hard against the head of his cock. “Isn’t that how dogs show their affection?”

“Fuck you,” Shizuo grates, thrusts forward hard to steal Izaya’s coherency into a gasp of shivering reaction. Izaya’s shaking under his touch, his legs quivering until Shizuo’s not sure he could stand without the brace of Shizuo’s fingers at his hip; the temptation to drop him is strong, but it’s overridden by the way Izaya keeps tensing around Shizuo’s cock and the breathless inhales he hisses every time Shizuo strokes over him. “Don’t you ever shut  _up_?”

“Never,” Izaya gasps. He reaches out with his other hand to shove against the wall; Shizuo can see his fingers flexing on nothing, curling into desperation against the support. “Don’t stop, Shizu-chan.”

Shizuo doesn’t. The implied obedience is irritating, would be enough to persuade him to still in other circumstances, but Izaya is trembling around him and hot under his fingers, and there’s something viscerally satisfying about the flex of Izaya’s shoulders taking the force of Shizuo’s motion, those too-thin arms bracing both of them against Shizuo’s thrusts. The air is heavy with steam, every breath Shizuo takes sticky on his tongue, and he doesn’t care, he’s too lost to the heavy rhythm of his hips rocking forward into Izaya. There’s a choking inhale, a whimper that sounds nearly like pain, and Izaya’s cock twitches against Shizuo’s fingers, spills wet that is rinsed away as fast as it is offered. He’s gasping air, his head falling farther forward like he can’t hold it up, his arms shaking with the effort of bracing them both, and Shizuo lets Izaya’s cock go, reaches out to press his palm to the space between Izaya’s as he thrusts in -- once, twice more -- before groaning overloud in the small space and shuddering into satisfaction himself. There’s heat rushing through him, tension turning itself into pleasure in every part of his body, and then he can feel his knees shake and realizes he has to sit down immediately or fall.

“Oh fuck,” Shizuo says, pushes himself back and away just in time for Izaya to drop heavily to the floor of the shower. He doesn’t even try to regain his footing, just twists sideways to rest his shoulders against the side of the tub and turn his face up to the splash of the water.

“You know, fucking doesn’t have to be an athletic stunt,” Izaya says without opening his eyes. Shizuo sits down with minimally more grace than Izaya managed, kicks his legs out over the floor of the tub until his heels are digging into Izaya’s hip; this gets him a shove, fingernails digging in sharp against his ankle, but he lacks the energy to care and after a moment Izaya gives up anyway. “Humans are known to have sex in  _beds_. Sometimes even lying down.”

“Shut up,” Shizuo says, draws a foot back to kick Izaya’s hips. The force hits hard -- he can see Izaya shift with the impact -- but there’s not even a hiss of pain, just a flash of white teeth and another scrape of fingernails, this time along the inside of his knee.

The water goes cold before they’re clean.


	27. Tease

“I’m pretty sure this doesn’t count as sushi,” Izaya announces from the other side of the narrow wooden table. “Is that sour cream?”

“Shut up,” Shizuo growls, reaches for Izaya’s share of the piece in question to remove the issue entirely. “Are you always this picky about food?”

“I don’t generally eat condiments without anything of substance, if that’s what you mean.” Izaya hasn’t in fact eaten anything yet, as far as Shizuo can tell; he’s playing with a paper-thin slice of what Shizuo sincerely hopes is ginger, but since eating would necessitate a pause in his smirking amusement it is apparently not happening. “Do you make a habit of this?”

“Fuck you,” Shizuo says. “Is that why you’re so fucking skinny?”

“This isn’t food,” Izaya declares. He’s kicking Shizuo under the table, has been leaving bruises against Shizuo’s shin with every swing of his foot; Shizuo hissed through the first few before giving up on protest as useless. It seemed more effective to turn himself to counteracting the shaky exhaustion still in his limbs by the time they made it out of the house and to the local sushi shop.

“You can eat it,” Shizuo declares around another piece of sushi. “That makes it food.”

“Is that your approach to everything?” Izaya asks. “That explains the biting, at least.” He pushes another piece across the platter, easing it just over the halfway point onto what is ostensibly Shizuo’s side. “It might be some kind of modern art.”

“Not hungry?” comes a booming voice just at Shizuo’s elbow. Shizuo glances up the broad wall formed by Simon’s shoulders to the other’s smiling face, the expression apparently sincere even though Shizuo has never seen it so much as flicker. “You should eat, eating is good!”

“So I’ve been told,” Izaya says, his voice dropping into the odd sugar-sweet lilt he adopts with people who don’t know better than to trust him. Shizuo looks back at him, offers a glare, and Izaya parries with a smirk before tilting his head up to smile up at Simon. “I’m just keeping Shizu-chan company. He gets sulky when he’s hungry.”

“Fuck  _you_ ,” Shizuo hisses. “ _You’re_  the one who said you wanted to go out.”

Izaya shrugs, bares his teeth in a smile. “I wanted you to take me on a date,” he says, reaching out to flick a burst of bruising pain against Shizuo’s wrist. “Is there something wrong with that?”

“A date!” Simon repeats, loudly enough that Shizuo flinches as much from the volume as from the words. When his hands come together the clap is as loud as thunder. “Very good, sushi is very romantic! Happiness on you both.”

Shizuo glares, Izaya smirks, Simon leaves. Shizuo aims a kick under the table, hard enough to at least bruise if not actually break the skin, but Izaya tips his knees sideways and Shizuo’s foot connects with the bottom edge of the bench instead.

“ _Fuck_ ,” he hisses, drawing his aching toes back. “A  _date_ , what the  _fuck_?”

“Come on, Shizu-chan,” Izaya purrs, reaching for a piece of sushi. His fingers catch at the seaweed roll, his elbow settling against the table as he leans forward to offer the bite for Shizuo’s glare. “Did you want to keep me your dirty little secret forever?”

Shizuo eyes the roll, the suggestion of Izaya’s hold. “No way.”

“I didn’t poison it,” Izaya offers, as if that’s Shizuo’s concern and not eating sushi off his fingers in the middle of a sushi restaurant, no matter how deserted it currently is. He eyes the roll skeptically, sets it back down on the platter. “Really though, it’s a bit ridiculous to keep pretending we’re not together when you’re leaving bruises on whatever of my skin you can get your hands on.”

“You just bruise too easy,” Shizuo growls, watching Izaya’s wrist angle shadows into the promise of fingerprints. “If you ate more maybe you wouldn’t have this problem.”

“Hm,” Izaya hums, slow and pleased in a way that says Shizuo walked into some kind of a trap he didn’t see closing around him. “I’ll make you a deal, Shizu-chan.”

“No,” Shizuo says, just on principle, but Izaya keeps talking as if he hadn’t spoken.

“I’ll eat anything you want to feed me.” Izaya’s tone drags the words into suggestion, the tilt of his chin and the slick of his tongue across his lip completing the innuendo.

“ _No_ ,” Shizuo repeats, louder this time, but he’s staring at Izaya’s mouth, now, following the dark-swollen curve of his lower lip, the arc of his earlier bite visible in shadow against the white of Izaya’s teeth. “Fuck you.”

Izaya’s eyebrow goes up, his shoulder following suit in a deliberately casual shrug. “Not if you don’t feed me.”

Shizuo would like to say he resists this absurdly obvious attempt at manipulation. It’s low for Izaya’s usual standards; he must be worn out after all, even if his smile is trying to claim his usual taunting energy. But he’s not completely sure Izaya isn’t serious, and in spite of the weight dragging his limbs heavy and slow his blood tries for heat at the idea of Izaya sprawling over his bed, or shoved down over the back of the couch, or backed up against the kitchen counter, or --

“Fuck,” Shizuo spits, reaches for a piece of sushi while Izaya starts to laugh. He’s too forceful in picking it up, the sauce lacing the top spilling down over his thumb, but he doesn’t pause to get a better grip; he just reaches out over the table to press in against Izaya’s obediently open mouth. There’s the friction of lips at his skin, the heat of Izaya’s mouth on him, and Shizuo is just starting to pull away when Izaya’s fingers close on his wrist to hold his hand steady.

“You’re sticky,” Izaya announces, swallowing hard so the words come out clear and intelligible, and then he’s drawing Shizuo’s hand towards his mouth, sliding his lips down against the other’s thumb and licking the sauce off his skin. Shizuo’s neck goes hot, his heartbeat speeding with embarrassment and arousal at once, and for a moment he can’t find the willpower to look away from the darkness in Izaya’s eyes.

By the time Izaya’s teeth dig in against him in a blood-drawing bite, Shizuo’s too hot to feel the hurt.


	28. Tension

They don’t make it back to the apartment without stopping. Shizuo thinks it’s a testament to how tired they both are that they even manage to leave Simon’s sushi shop before Izaya’s fingers slide in under the edge of his jeans, the drape of the other’s arm around his waist only the outline of affection to give cover to the suggestion of fingernails scraping against skin. The few blocks of distance are insurmountable under the circumstances, the patience required to make it back to privacy wholly absent; they end up in the half-shadows of an alley, with Shizuo’s shoulders to block the light while Izaya’s fingers draw another shuddering orgasm up out of reserves he didn’t know he had. Izaya’s even faster; by the time his fingers are sticky all Shizuo has to do is tighten a hold against his hip, shove his thumb hard against Izaya’s cock, and Izaya’s whining almost-protest and coming under the friction of Shizuo’s fingers. It’s only a few minutes after that to travel the distance back to the apartment and land on Shizuo’s bed, stripping their clothes back off almost before Shizuo gets the door shut.

“I don’t know if I can take any more,” Izaya had complained as he draped himself over the sheets, twisting over the mattress to watch Shizuo shove his jeans off his hips and kick them against the wall. “Happy though I am with your evolution towards something like normal behavior, not all of us have your inhuman stamina.”

“Shut up,” Shizuo growled, dropping to the edge of the bed between the invitation of Izaya’s angled-open knees to drag him closer bodily. Complaints notwithstanding, Izaya was hard again before Shizuo drew his fingers out of him, and by the time Shizuo shuddered and gasped his way into post-orgasmic haze Izaya was staring vacant pleasure at the ceiling, too sated to even muster more than a hiss when Shizuo dropped heavy against him.

The peace of an unstated truce stretches for what feels like hours. Shizuo is too warm to sleep but too tired to move; the only concession he grants to argumentation is when Izaya shifts and sighs under him to align the sharp edges of his elbow and knees with Shizuo’s body. Even then, all he can manage is a weak “It only takes four orgasms to shut you up?” which is at least better than the shaky almost-laugh that Izaya has to struggle to offer. The afternoon stretches on, the dim light outside the window fading to gold, and Shizuo is just starting to wonder how much longer it will take him to muster the energy to get up when he hears the sound of the front door unlocking and adrenaline makes the decision for him.

“ _Shit_ ,” he blurts, shoving upright so fast his head spins. Izaya groans, rolls over on the sheets, and there’s the sound of footsteps on the other side of the thankfully shut door, Shinra’s voice loud enough to be recognized through the wall. Shizuo topples off the bed, scrambles through the clothes on the floor -- Izaya’s shirt, a single mismatched sock, a pair of boxers too sticky to even contemplate wearing again. He’s just located what appear to be his jeans when there’s a knock on the door, the tentative rap he recognizes as Celty’s paired with a “Shizuo!” in Shinra’s chipper tone. “You home?”

“Yeah,” Shizuo shouts back, stumbling and nearly tripping in his haste to drag his jeans on. “One sec.”

“The door’s locked,” Izaya offers from the bed. When Shizuo glances at him he’s not even sitting up; he’s curled over the sheets instead, head pillowed on one arm so he can give Shizuo the laziest smirk the other has ever seen. “Your modesty is safe.”

“Shut up,” Shizuo growls as he fastens his jeans, makes for the closet to track down a shirt. “Just stay there and be  _quiet_.”

“Are you going to tie me down?” Izaya asks, but he shows no sign of moving; Shizuo rolls his eyes, kicks the edge of the mattress to jar the other’s comfort, and makes for the door while Izaya’s still spilling laughter against the pillows.

Shinra and Celty are in the kitchen, Shizuo finds as he pulls his bedroom door shut behind him and makes for the warm illumination. He can’t remember if he and Izaya left any telltale clothing in the main space of the house, but nothing appears to be out-of-place, and when Celty looks up to give him her usual smile she looks wholly unsuspicious.

“Hey Shizuo!” Shinra burbles.

“Hey,” Shizuo says, watching Celty’s eyebrows crease into concern as her fingers offer,  _Did we wake you?_  He shakes his head, waves a hand to brush away her worry; when he speaks he can feel his voice trying to crack on self-consciousness. “I wasn’t asleep, just worn out.”

It’s more leading than he intended -- at barely six in the evening, the obvious question is what he was doing to be so tired -- but Celty lets it go, leaves it to Shinra to pick up with “You look exhausted! Did you have dinner?”

“Yeah,” Shizuo says, vaguely remembering the taste of sushi; then, as he processes the time on the clock: “No, wait, that was lunch.”

“Hmm,” Shinra says, reaches up to set his palm against Shizuo’s forehead with professional detachment. “You’re running a bit warm. Do you feel feverish?”

“He’s not feverish,” a voice announces from the hallway, so familiar Shizuo is growling himself into irritation before he has processed any of the details of the situation. “He just overexerted himself.”

“Izaya!” Shinra says, sounding delighted and only very slightly surprised. “You’re back!”

“I’m back,” Izaya echoes. When Shizuo dares to look over his shoulder he’s tipped against the wall of the hallway at an angle that probably looks casual to Shinra and looks a lot like he can’t quite trust his feet to Shizuo’s eyes. He’s also wearing a shirt, which is a relief, but it’s obviously one of Shizuo’s from the way it hangs off his shoulders to bare -- among other things -- the bruise-clear marks of Shizuo’s mouth on his neck and shoulders.

“You look terrible,” Shinra observes, abandoning his interest in Shizuo to poke at Izaya’s too-pale skin. “What have you been eating?” Then, as easily as if it’s a reasonable shift of conversational topic: “Shizuo, you have to let the bites heal before you damage the skin again or you’re going to leave scars.”

There’s no surprise in the words at all. Shinra in fact delivers them with such perfect equanimity that Shizuo’s tired brain takes a long moment to catch up to the implication under them. But then:

“Ah,” Shizuo says, and looks back at Celty, feeling a vague sense of foreboding that his mind is too slow to parse into either embarrassment or self-consciousness. Celty is staring, expression blank of any kind of judgment or suggestion of anger; she just looks confused, looking from Shizuo to Izaya and back again with a crease of absolutely no comprehension forming at her forehead.

“You knew?” Izaya is asking, but Shizuo doesn’t turn around to see the threat of laughter he can hear in the other’s voice.

“I didn’t  _know_  know,” Shinra answers with more of that startling calm, like finding out two sworn enemies are sleeping together is an everyday occurrence. “I just thought it was a possibility. You weren’t very subtle, you know.”

Shizuo wants to protest this. From the whip-quick  _What?!_  Celty signs at Shinra’s back, he’s not the only one.

“Your girlfriend disagrees,” Izaya announces to the room at large. “ _I_  certainly didn’t think anyone not lacking in basic mental facilities could miss it.”

Shizuo knows who that insult was intended for, even if Izaya earns himself a squawk of protest from Shinra and the start of what promises to be a lengthy monologue regarding Celty’s many and varied skills. It’s a weak hit, definitely not worth turning around for, and besides Celty is looking at him, now, one eyebrow raising nearly to her hairline as she asks,  _Izaya?_  under the cover of Shinra’s steadily rising protest of her worth and Izaya’s purring laughter at this response.

Shizuo considers Celty’s expression -- the raised eyebrow, the shock still clear in her eyes, the tension against her mouth -- weighs his responses against the likelihood of her being upset. Then he sighs and gives up the calculation because, after all, honesty is the best policy, and also he’s too worn out to think straight.

“Izaya,” he says, shrugging like that will somehow explain away the million reasons why this is ridiculous via the one reason it isn’t.

Celty stares at him for a moment, her eyes wide, her mouth still turning over possible expressions. Then she lets her hands fall, tips her head down, offers a shrug. When she lifts her chin again, it’s a smile at her mouth, amusement bright to match her raised eyebrows.

Shizuo’s relief is as bright as Izaya’s spill of laughter.


	29. Rejection

Celty is nervous when Shizuo comes out of his bedroom.

Shizuo is still not completely awake -- he finds himself missing out on sleep more and more in the last few weeks, thanks largely to Izaya’s newfound preference for lurking at the bar every time Shizuo is working. The company on the walk home invariably turns into sex, at home if they’re lucky enough to make it that far, and then there’s only a few hours left before Shizuo’s alarm goes off to drag him back up into consciousness. Still, he don’t have to be fully functional to see the strain all over Celty’s face; he’s pretty sure he doesn’t even need the crease in her forehead or the set of her mouth, that just the anxious hunch to her shoulders would be enough.

“What’s wrong?” he asks as he rounds the corner to the kitchen, draws open the fridge door in pursuit of something caffeinated and hopefully bitter enough to jar him into some illusion of alertness.

 _What?_  Celty offers when he glances up to see her response. Even her hands are trembling with strain.  _Nothing’s wrong_.

Shizuo sighs, looks back at the fridge. There’s a pitcher of cold brew coffee left from Shinra’s most recent experiment in beverage concocting; it’s not his usual tea, but the promise of instant assistance for his lethargy without trying to boil water seems like an advantage. He pulls it out. “Can I drink some of this?”

 _Sure_ , Celty agrees, and Shizuo turns to the cupboards for a cup while he goes on.

“You’re sitting at the kitchen table looking like you’re expecting an interrogation or an execution.” He looks sideways at her, amends his statement. “Maybe both.” The coffee splashes into the cup, spills bitter richness into the air; Shizuo puts the pitcher back, takes the cup to the table with him as he sits down heavily in the opposite chair. “You have something to say, what is it?”

Celty flinches, ducks her head so her hair falls half in front of her face; Shizuo knows a stall when he sees one, raises his eyebrows with as much surprise as he can manage as he lifts the cup to his mouth.

 _It’s nothing bad_ , Celty offers, a leading statement that carries no reassurance at all.  _I just wanted to talk about it with you_.

“‘It,’” Shizuo repeats. The coffee is sweeter than he expected, lacking some of the bitter bite he has come to expect from the beverage. “What’s ‘it’?”

Celty takes a deep breath, one Shizuo can see shifting in her shoulders; then she lifts her head, meets and holds his gaze before lifting her hands.

 _Shinra asked me to move in with him_.

“Okay,” Shizuo says, waits for the rest of the statement while he swallows another mouthful of coffee. Celty takes a breath, lets it out in a gust of relief, and it’s only then that Shizuo realizes there may not  _be_  a rest of the statement. “Is that it?”

Celty frowns confusion at him.  _That’s what I needed to tell you._

“That’s not a big deal,” Shizuo declares. The coffee is tasting better with every sip, his vision clearing as the stress of waking eases from his shoulders. “That’s awesome.” He pauses, looks up with a frown of suspicion. “Unless you don’t  _want_  to move in with him.”

 _No!_  Celty answers, so quickly as to leave no room for doubt at all in her sincerity.  _No, I do, it’s just…_  She ducks her head, her mouth twisting on hesitation.

“What?” Shizuo asks, since Celty looks like she needs some additional prodding. “Just say it, it’s not that big a deal.”

 _You’ll be on your own_ , she finishes without looking up to see Shizuo’s reaction.  _Don’t you need a roommate to pay rent?_

“Oh,” Shizuo says, then shrugs, unconcerned by the prospect. “It’s fine, I’m sure I can find someone. Or I can just move to a smaller place, it’s no big deal.” He grins, lifts his cup to his lips again. “I’m a lot more interested in you and Shinra turning domestic. Are you gonna buy him an apron?”

Celty giggles, the silent shake of her shoulders that speaks to true amusement.  _He already has one, actually_.

Shizuo’s eyebrows go up. “Wow. Is he that excited about it?”

Celty’s smile says yes, promises more details to the question, but it’s then that Shizuo’s phone starts to ring from the edge of the table, the pseudo-musical tone that Izaya set for himself three weeks ago and Shizuo hasn’t yet figured out how to change. He hisses reflexively, checks the time -- before noon, still far earlier than Izaya usually bothers to call -- before answering with a hissed, “What the fuck do you want?”

“You’re a terrible boyfriend, Shizu-chan,” Izaya informs him, laughter audible in the lilt of his voice even over the distortion of the phone. “What if I just wanted to hear your voice?”

“I’m not your damn boyfriend,” Shizuo protests, knowing this is a futile claim even before Celty raises her eyebrows skeptically at him from across the table.

“What, you’d prefer ‘pet’?” Izaya asks, trails off into a giggle as Shizuo hisses irritation at him.

“Why are you calling me?” Shizuo demands. “I saw you all of six hours ago, can’t you give me a few hours of peace?”

“About that,” Izaya purrs. “Did you hear the good news about our favorite lovebirds?”

Shizuo groans, leans in over the table as he presses his free hand against the ache rapidly rising behind his eyes. “In the middle of it right now. Why the  _fuck_  does it--” and then he stops, because he can suddenly see where this is going.

“ _No_ ,” he says, exactly as Izaya says, “Looking for a roommate, Shizu-chan?”

Izaya’s laugh says that he knows the rejection to be precisely as hollow as it tastes on Shizuo’s tongue.


	30. Here

Shizuo wakes up to the sound of the front door slamming.

“Shizu-chan.” It’s drawn long, drawling over a familiar tongue; Shizuo groans, loud so the sound will carry through the bedroom door, rolls over to reach for a pillow in anticipation.

“Fuck off,” he says against the mattress as the bedroom door opens and is left that way, primarily because Izaya is a horrible human being. “You woke me up.”

The laugh is expected, no less irritating for Shizuo’s anticipation. He rolls over onto his back, flings the pillow in the vague direction of the sound, but if he anticipated Izaya’s laugh Izaya must have anticipated the projectile; there’s the soft sound of the pillow landing harmlessly at the floor, then weight at the end of the bed, the cold of the night clinging to Izaya’s skin and hair as he leans in towards Shizuo’s mouth.

“I hope I did,” he purrs, the sound humming ticklish and not-quite-in-contact with Shizuo’s lips. Shizuo reaches up towards Izaya’s shoulder, not sure if he’s pulling the other in or pushing him away; it doesn’t matter anyway, when all he hits is air as Izaya ducks down to slide against the thin undershirt covering Shizuo’s chest. “It’s not particularly satisfying to fuck you when you’re asleep.”

“Go away,” Shizuo says, pushing up onto an elbow to flail at the night-blurred shape of Izaya ducking over him as he pushes the blankets off Shizuo’s legs to bare his skin to the cold of the air. “Fuck you, you’ve never done that.”

“Not for lack of trying,” Izaya sighs, as heavily as if he’s truly upset by this. “Come on, Shizu-chan, don’t pretend you don’t want me.”

“I’m not pretending,” Shizuo says, getting a hand in against Izaya’s shoulder and shoving against the resistance. Izaya just goes pliant under the force, turns sideways over the bed, and the moment Shizuo’s hand slides free he’s back where he was, fitting himself between the spread of Shizuo’s knees and tangling his fingers with the hem of the other’s shirt. “I’m  _sleeping_ , go wait on the couch until morning.”

“Don’t want to wait,” Izaya says. His hands are cold on Shizuo’s skin, stealing the comfort of sleep and replacing it with shivering friction. “You don’t either.” His mouth lands at Shizuo’s stomach, tongue slipping fast against bare skin, and Shizuo shudders, even the sleepy haze over his reactions giving way to allow for this one reaction.

“Come on,” Izaya says against his stomach. The ends of his hair are catching ticklish at Shizuo’s skin, his fingers urging Shizuo’s shirt up high over his chest. “You could pin me down to the bed and fuck me into the mattress.” Fingernails, now, scraping a path of heat back down to Shizuo’s hip; Shizuo frowns into the darkness, forces himself away from temptation so he can cling to the irritation he  _ought_  to feel. “You could even lie there and let me ride you, I wouldn’t mind.” Izaya opens his mouth wide, drags his teeth over Shizuo’s stomach; Shizuo sets his jaw, resists the urge to tilt his hips up against the weight of Izaya’s shoulders pressed against him.

“Oh,” Izaya hums, the sound of a good idea that makes Shizuo shut his eyes in preemptive surrender before he’s even heard what it is. “What about that thing you did last week, when you pushed my leg up against my chest and held me down by my shoulder?” He’s purring; he knows he’s won as certainly as Shizuo does, as certain as Shizuo’s cock is swelling at the memory of Izaya’s whining moans and the tremble of his arms as he braced against the wall.

“You liked that,” Izaya reminds him, ducks his head to slick his tongue just against the edge of Shizuo’s boxers. “You remember.”

“Fuck you,” Shizuo says, just for good measure. Izaya grins against his skin, works his fingers under Shizuo’s boxers to draw them off his hips; he doesn’t even bother stripping them all the way off, just tugs them down to the other’s knees and slides his mouth down the inches to bump his lips against the head of Shizuo’s half-hard cock. “ _God_.”

“I knew you’d come around,” Izaya says, voice dripping condescension, and then he’s sliding his mouth down around Shizuo, pressing his lips into a seal and sucking the other’s cock into the heat of his mouth. Shizuo groans, rocks up reflexively, and when he reaches out Izaya lets him get a handful of dark hair, lets him shove the other down hard against his hips. There’s not even a suggestion of the teeth that are so everpresent any other time Izaya’s mouth is at Shizuo’s skin; there’s just the heat, slick and wet and warm, until any resistance Shizuo might have had has been wholly converted into a pool of desire flaring low in his stomach, like it’s collecting in direct accordance with the movement of Izaya’s tongue.

Izaya twists against him, mumbling something incoherent and shoving away at Shizuo’s hips; Shizuo lets the weight of his hold lessen, even if he keeps the fist he has of ink-dark hair knotted around his fingers. Izaya gasps for air as soon as he’s free, the sound wet and slick enough that Shizuo almost wishes for better illumination just to see the damp collecting against Izaya’s mouth.

“I’m not going to suck you off,” Izaya announces, as confident as if he’s not got his head tilted around sideways to alleviate the drag of Shizuo’s fingers in his hair. “It’s not fair for you to be the only one to get off when it was my idea in the first place.”

“I was  _asleep_ ,” Shizuo reminds, shoves at Izaya’s hair to push him away while he rolls sideways to reach over the mattress and fumble blind for the sticky bottle they need. “Seems plenty fair to me.”

“Don’t be selfish, Shizu-chan.” There’s a movement through the air, something being tossed over the edge of the bed, and when Shizuo turns back around with lube in hand he’s not surprised to find Izaya’s skin bare of his dark shirt, his shoulders curled in so he can unfasten the fly of his jeans. “If you’re going to be like that I’ll just leave you alone and take care of myself.”

Shizuo’s pretty sure that’s a threat with no substance behind it; if Izaya cared enough to wake him up, he’s hardly likely to leave now. But the heat in his veins hisses at the possibility, however slight, and when he moves to grab at Izaya’s half-off jeans with sticky fingers it’s in response to that burn of desperation.

“Fuck that,” he growls, up-close against the curling grin at Izaya’s lips, digs his clean hand against Izaya’s hip to hold him steady while he fumbles his other hand between pale legs. Izaya’s arms drop around his neck, Izaya’s laugh is sharp in his ear as he rocks up over his knees to gain the advantage of height, but Shizuo doesn’t care; he has the edge in strength and in balance, at the moment, and besides his fingers are fitting against the tight-hot friction of Izaya’s entrance. “You had better finish what you started.”

“You’re so demanding,” Izaya croons before Shizuo angles his hand to thrust one slick finger up into him, the pressure cutting off his coherency into a breathless groan of satisfaction. His weight rocks forward, presses hard against Shizuo’s shoulders, but Shizuo just pushes right back, growls something between fury and gratification against Izaya’s shoulderblade. Izaya’s hot against the slide of his finger, easing into relaxation without needing to be told; Shizuo can hear the pant of Izaya’s exhales against his hair, the whine of pleasure that comes with each upward thrust of his hand. He doesn’t realize he’s smiling, the wide grin that drags tension at the corners of his mouth, but he can feel Izaya hot against his chest, the resistance of the other’s cock catching at the fabric of his shirt. Shizuo draws his hand back, adds a second finger, and Izaya groans then, shudders against him in a long tremor of satisfaction that Shizuo can feel tighten against his touch as well.

“Shut up,” Shizuo growls without any expectation of obedience. He shifts his hold at Izaya’s hip, fits his fingers in against the shift of the other’s ribs instead; he can feel Izaya’s breathing under his palm as well as in his hair this way. “What the hell time is it anyway?”

“Not quite four,” Izaya admits instantly. His fingers are winding into Shizuo’s hair, his hips rocking forward to press closer against Shizuo’s chest with each upward drive of the other’s fingers.

“ _Fuck_ ,” Shizuo growls. “What were you  _doing_?”

“All sorts of things,” Izaya purrs. His voice dips lower, suggestion forming itself in the shadows at the edges. “Wouldn’t you like to know the details?”

“Fuck you,” Shizuo says, tasting tension on his tongue, the sour bite of jealousy at the back of his throat. “You didn’t fuck anyone, did you?”

“Hm,” Izaya hums. “If I had, would I have bothered to wake you up?”

“You’re the worst,” Shizuo informs him, presses his fingers in as deep as they will go and listens to Izaya’s breathing catch against the slide of his touch. “I hate you so fucking much.”

“No you don’t,” Izaya hums, as unfazed by this claim as he has ever been.

“Fuck you,” Shizuo snaps, slides his fingers free and shoves hard at Izaya’s waist to knock him over onto the bed. Izaya hisses at the impact but Shizuo doesn’t give him time to sit back up; he’s grabbing at the other’s jeans instead, dragging them down and off his legs in a motion that is effective if not particularly graceful. Izaya’s hands come out, fit under the edge of Shizuo’s shirt to push it up off his skin, but Shizuo doesn’t pause to give him a chance to strip the fabric off; he’s shoving the jeans over the edge of the bed along with most of the rumpled blankets, rocking his weight in to fit his knees between Izaya’s. He angles his leg wider, pushes Izaya’s knee more open, and while Izaya is whining protest Shizuo is fitting between his legs, dropping his weight down to an angle so familiar his blood goes hot just with anticipation of the friction to come.

“That hurts,” Izaya protests, but he’s tilting himself up off the bed, angling one leg up around Shizuo’s hip to pull them closer together, and his fingers are dragging lines of aching heat across Shizuo’s chest. “You should be more gentle with me, Shizu-chan.”

“Like hell I should,” Shizuo hisses as he balances himself on one arm, reaches down between them to brace himself as he rocks forward. Izaya is slick against the head of his cock, the heat of his body suggestion enough to pull a growl of anticipation from Shizuo’s throat; when he starts to thrust forward it’s a deliberately slow movement, drawing out that first wet slide while Izaya shivers himself to tension underneath Shizuo.

“ _Fuck_ ,” Shizuo hisses, losing the thread of his thought for a moment as heat ripples out over him, cascades pleasure along his spine and tightens against the backs of his thighs. Izaya’s got fistfuls of his shirt, now, is dragging at the fabric like he’s trying to brace himself or pull Shizuo in closer; it’s impossible to say which and Shizuo isn’t about to try to separate the two. He lets his hold at the base of his cock go, slides his fingers up to close on Izaya’s instead; he can feel the other’s tremor of reaction as soon as he touches him, can taste the want off Izaya’s too-close lips.

“Fuck you,” he repeats, just for the familiarity of the syllables on his tongue; they sound like heat instead of anger, the viciousness in his blood formed of desire instead of irritation. When he draws back and thrusts in again Izaya arches off the bed, the leg around Shizuo’s hip tightens in a moment of reflexive response. He strokes his fingers up against Izaya’s length, presses his thumb in against the hot-hard skin, and Izaya purrs something completely unintelligible in response to the friction.

“I can’t believe you woke me up,” Shizuo says, strokes up harder to punctuate. Izaya’s hand at his chest shoves upward, bunches his shirt up against his collarbone, and he inches his knee forward, gives himself a better angle to thrust in deeper with his next movement. “I should never have moved in with you, I never get any sleep anymore.”

“You don’t think this is worth it?” Izaya asks, tilting his hips up harder so Shizuo’s next thrust is formed of friction, heat radiating starburst bright into his veins. “Sex with me anytime you want it?”

“Shut up,” Shizuo growls. He’s lost track of the movement of his hand; when he strokes again Izaya’s voice dies off into a whimper, the sound shimmering to heat in the air. “It’s anytime  _you_  want it, you’re the one who’s always waking me up.”

“Is that not enough for you?” Izaya asks. When he arches up off the mattress Shizuo can feel the motion spill tension all through his body, can’t bite back the low groan of sensation in his throat. “Do you want to keep me in bed with you all day, Shizu-chan?”

“Fuck,” Shizuo says, and “Shut up,” and he’s ducking in close to press Izaya’s mouth to silence under his. The angle is a strain on his shoulders, the effort of keeping his balance one-handed enough to tremor through him, but Izaya’s mouth opens under his and Izaya’s licking past his lips and Shizuo forgets about the effort, forgets to think about the rhythm he’s seeking, lets instinct take over his motions as he growls satisfaction into Izaya’s mouth and gets a fistful of hair to hold the other in place.

He can feel when Izaya is close. The strain in the body under his is a good sign, the heat rising under his fingers another, but mostly it’s Izaya’s breathing, the way he lets the contact of the kiss go to pant over Shizuo’s mouth with no attempt at speech to interrupt the pace of his inhales. It makes Shizuo grin, competitiveness converting to gratification as he listens to the strain in Izaya’s breathing, and when he purrs, “Gonna come?” Izaya arches like the words are permission, hisses and shudders and comes in long shivering waves of heat over Shizuo’s hold on him. Shizuo’s laugh comes out lower than he expected, hot and shuddering in his throat, and then he’s letting Izaya’s cock go to grab at his hip instead, bracing the other to the mattress and holding him steady against the force of his movements.

“You’re such a pain,” he growls, turns his head to breathe against the night-air chill still clinging to Izaya’s hair, to taste the metallic sweat-salt that collects at the curve of his throat. “You wake me up at  _four in the morning_  for sex.” A harder thrust, enough that Izaya whines at the friction even around the sated heat in his throat, and Shizuo can feel himself tensing, expectation forming itself into the shape of his veins. “You should have come home earlier.”

Fingers steady from their languid drag at his shirt, Izaya fitting his hand against the line of Shizuo’s chest. Shizuo can feel his heartbeat pounding rough against the press of the other’s palm. “Mm,” Izaya hums, some of the taunt of his voice sliding back over the throaty resonance of pleasure. “Were you lonely, Shizu-chan?”

“Fuck,” Shizuo groans, thrusts forward so Izaya gasps, tightens reflexively around him. The friction surges up his spine, sparks white against the haze of his night-dim vision. “I want you  _here_ ,” he says, the words hot at Izaya’s skin, and then he shuts his eyes to the pulse of heat that breaks over him. It shakes up his spine, locks his shoulders into immobility for a moment; all he can do is gasp, and groan, and quiver through the waves of sensation that turn the night around him warm and bright with satisfaction.

Shizuo is just catching his breath, just blinking the white-out pleasure from his vision, when Izaya’s fingers ease on his shirt, slide up and against the back of his neck to wind into his hair instead. He shuts his eyes to that too, lets the support of his arm go to drop heavy over Izaya.

“You’re heavy,” Izaya protests, tightening his fingers into a fist and dragging brief pain against Shizuo’s scalp.

“Shut up,” Shizuo tells him, his voice muffled by the sheets under them. “I’m tired.”

“So get off me and go to sleep,” Izaya says, lets one of his hands go to shove uselessly at Shizuo’s shoulder instead. Shizuo ignores the force, pulls at Izaya’s hair to tip his head to the side and bare the tension of his neck for the fit of his mouth.

“Come home sooner next time,” he says, growling the words into a threat before he presses his teeth to the salt of Izaya’s skin. He can feel Izaya’s laugh, the sincerity of it clear even past the tension of his angled head.

“You  _were_ lonely,” Izaya says. His hand slides sideways, the angle of his elbow fitting between the dip of Shizuo’s shoulderblades. “You really are possessive, aren’t you, Shizu-chan?”

Shizuo doesn’t answer. He just tightens his hold, digs his fingers into the shape of Izaya’s hip; it’s as much an answer as Izaya’s humming laughter is a promise.


End file.
